ADVERTISEMENT
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.
ADVERTISEMENT
