When I turned eighteen, my grandmother gave me a handmade red cardigan. It wasn’t fancy or expensive—just soft yarn, stitched carefully with her aging hands. I remember her smiling proudly as she handed it to me, her eyes crinkling in that familiar way when she was happy. At the time, I barely looked up from my phone. I muttered a quick “Thanks, Grandma,” and went back to getting ready to go out with friends.
That was the last birthday gift she ever gave me. A few weeks later, she passed away suddenly.
For years afterward, the cardigan sat untouched in the back of my closet. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it—I just couldn’t face the wave of emotions it brought. Every time I saw the deep red fabric, I remembered her face that day—the love, the patience, and how little I had given her in return. I folded it neatly and pushed it to the back, telling myself I’d deal with it later.
Life went on. I went to college, started a job, fell in love, got married, and had a daughter. Somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking about the cardigan. It stayed buried under old coats and scarves, quietly waiting.
Nearly twenty years later, while cleaning my closet one Saturday afternoon, my fifteen-year-old daughter found it.
“Mom, what’s this?” she asked, pulling it from the pile.
I froze. There it was—the red cardigan. After all these years, it looked almost the same: slightly faded, but still soft and warm. My throat tightened. “That was your great-grandmother’s,” I said quietly.
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