When I turned 18, my grandma handed me a red cardigan — hand-knitted, simple, nothing flashy. I smiled, mumbled, “Thanks,” and that was it.
A few weeks later, she passed away. I never wore the cardigan. Fifteen years went by.
Yesterday, my 15-year-old daughter dug it out of a box. “Can I try it on?” she asked.
The moment her hand slipped into the pocket, we froze. There was a tiny folded envelope — my name written in my grandma’s familiar shaky handwriting.
My heart raced as I opened it. Inside was a note:
“My dear, this took me all winter to make. Every stitch carries a wish for your happiness. One day you will understand the value of simple love.”
Time collapsed around me. I was 18 again — too young to recognize love when it came quietly, without sparkle or fanfare.
I remembered her sitting across from me all those years ago, hands worn from a lifetime of work, knitting warmth into every stitch. And I had left it folded in a drawer like it meant nothing.
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