On my eighteenth birthday, my grandmother gave me a gift that seemed simple at the time—a red cardigan she had knitted herself. I remember opening it quickly, offering a half-hearted “thanks,” and rushing out the door to celebrate with friends.
As a teenager, I didn’t fully recognize the love and effort she had poured into every stitch. Only weeks later, she passed away, and the cardigan remained folded in my closet. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it, not just because it reminded me of her, but because deep down I felt guilty for not appreciating her gift when I had the chance.
Leave a Reply