A few weeks later, she passed away unexpectedly. The news shattered something inside me, but like most eighteen-year-olds, I didn’t know how to process grief. I went through the motions — the funeral, the condolences, the polite nods — all while feeling hollow. The red cardigan ended up folded neatly at the back of my closet. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it. It reminded me too much of what I’d lost — and of how little I had appreciated her when I still could.
Years went by, and life moved forward, as it always does. I went to college, fell in love, got married, and had a daughter of my own. The cardigan remained untouched, carefully preserved but unseen, tucked away like a time capsule of guilt and love I wasn’t ready to face. Occasionally, when I cleaned out my closet, I’d catch a glimpse of it — that bright red color standing out against a sea of muted clothes. I’d run my hand over the soft wool and then quietly put it back. It was too painful.
“Mom, what’s this?” she asked, holding up the cardigan.
I froze for a moment. The sight of it brought a flood of memories — the smell of my grandmother’s tiny kitchen, her warm laughter, the way she’d hum softly while knitting. I took the cardigan from my daughter’s hands and held it close.
“That,” I said softly, “was a gift from your great-grandmother.”
“It’s beautiful,” Emma said, slipping it over her shoulders. The sleeves were a little long, but it suited her. The red color looked stunning against her dark hair. She twirled in front of the mirror, smiling. Then she stopped suddenly and frowned. “Mom… there’s something in the pocket.”
I looked up, startled. “Really? After all this time?”
She reached in and pulled out a small, crumpled piece of paper. My heart began to pound. My grandmother was a woman of little means but deep sentiment. She often left small notes in birthday cards, lunch boxes, and gifts — her way of staying close, even when apart. I took the fragile note carefully and unfolded it. Continue reading…
