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The words blurred as tears filled my eyes. My daughter quietly slipped her hand into mine, sensing the weight of the moment without needing explanation. It felt as if my grandmother had known this day would come—that when I finally needed her, her love would find me.
Suddenly, the cardigan wasn’t just a garment or a reminder of guilt. It was her voice. Her embrace. Her legacy.
And I realized: the cardigan had done its job. It had carried her love across decades, waiting patiently for the right moment to reveal its secret.
From that day on, it stopped living in the shadows of my closet. My daughter wore it proudly—to school on chilly mornings, to study sessions, and sometimes just around the house. Each time she did, I felt a bridge forming between three generations: my grandmother, myself, and my daughter.
The cardigan became more than yarn and fabric. It became a symbol of enduring love—a quiet reminder that the gestures we overlook in the moment often carry the deepest meaning.
Now, when I see my daughter slip it on, I don’t feel guilt anymore. I feel gratitude. Gratitude that my grandmother’s love found its way back to me through that note. Gratitude that my daughter carries a piece of her great-grandmother into the future.
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