When I turned eighteen, my grandmother gave me a hand-knitted red cardigan. She had spent months on it, every stitch woven with care, patience, and love. At the time, I didn’t fully understand. College applications, parties, friends—I was too caught up in my own world. I smiled, muttered a half-hearted “Thanks, Grandma,” and moved on, barely noticing the softness in her eyes when I didn’t hug her or the way she lingered on my hand a second longer.
A few weeks later, she passed away suddenly. I went through the motions of grief—funeral, condolences, polite smiles—but inside I felt hollow. The cardigan was folded neatly at the back of my closet, untouched. It was too painful, a reminder of what I had lost and how little I had appreciated her.
Years passed. I went to college, fell in love, got married, had a daughter—Emma. The cardigan remained tucked away, a silent time capsule of love and guilt I wasn’t ready to face. Occasionally, I would see it, bright against muted clothes, touch the soft wool, and put it back.
Then one day, spring cleaning with Emma changed everything. She found the old cardboard box and held up the cardigan.
“Mom, what’s this?” she asked.
I froze. The smell of my grandmother’s kitchen, her warm laugh, the hum of her knitting—memories flooded me.
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