When my daughter slipped her hands into the cardigan’s pocket, her fingers brushed against something small and crinkled. She pulled it out—a folded piece of paper, yellowed with age, and a tiny velvet pouch. My heart thudded as I opened the note.
In my grandmother’s delicate handwriting, it read: “For when you need me most. Love, Grandma.”
Inside the pouch was a thin gold chain with a locket. My hands trembled as I opened it. On one side was a tiny photograph of me as a baby, in her arms. On the other, a picture of her, smiling in that warm, gentle way I remembered.
Tears blurred my vision. I had dismissed her gift all those years ago, not realizing she had hidden something far more precious than yarn and stitches. The cardigan wasn’t just a piece of clothing—it was her love, her sacrifice, her way of holding me close even after she was gone.
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