On my eighteenth birthday, my grandmother handed me a box wrapped in floral paper. Inside was a red cardigan she had knitted herself. I barely glanced at it. A quick “thanks,” a kiss on her cheek, and I was out the door—chasing laughter, car rides, and late-night plans. At eighteen, I didn’t understand that every stitch held hours of her love.
Just weeks later, she passed away.
The cardigan, still neatly folded, was tucked into the back of my closet. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it—not because I didn’t like it, but because it filled me with guilt. I had brushed off her effort, treated her gift like any other sweater. And then she was gone. Every time I opened the closet, it felt less like fabric and more like a silent reminder of the thank you I never truly gave.
Years passed. Life swept me forward—college, my first job, falling in love, marriage, motherhood. Through every move, the cardigan came with me, folded carefully into boxes labeled keepsakes. I couldn’t throw it away, but I couldn’t face it either. It became a quiet symbol of both love and regret.
Then, one rainy afternoon, while cleaning with my fifteen-year-old daughter, she found it.
