When I turned eighteen, my grandmother gave me a gift she had spent months working on — a hand-knitted red cardigan. It wasn’t store-bought or expensive, but she had poured her time, energy, and love into every single stitch. At that age, though, I didn’t fully understand what that meant. I was too wrapped up in my own world — college applications, friends, parties, plans that all seemed so much bigger than a piece of yarn and wool. I smiled politely, said a half-hearted “Thanks, Grandma,” and moved on. I didn’t notice how her eyes softened when I didn’t hug her or how she held my hand just a moment longer before letting go. Continue reading…
