When I turned eighteen, my grandma knitted me a red cardigan. The yarn was a little scratchy, the color too bright for my taste, and the sleeves slightly uneven. It was all she could afford, made slowly with hands that already trembled. I remember forcing a smile and saying a dry, careless, “Thanks.” No hug. No excitement. Just politeness.
She died only weeks later.
The cardigan stayed folded at the back of my closet for years. Every time I saw it, guilt tugged at me, so I left it untouched. I told myself it was too late to feel anything now. Life moved on. I grew up, had a family, and became a parent myself.
Now my daughter is fifteen.
One afternoon, she was rummaging through old clothes and pulled the red cardigan out. “Can I try this on?” she asked. I hesitated, then nodded.
As she slipped her hand into the pocket, she stopped.
“Mom… what’s this?”
Inside was a small, yellowed envelope. My name was written on it in my grandma’s familiar, careful handwriting. My hands shook as I opened it. Inside was a short note and a folded twenty-dollar bill.
The note read: “For something warm to drink when you’re tired. I’m always with you.”
We both stood there in silence, wrapped in red yarn and regret—and finally, love.
