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.
I thought of how she had saved money for weeks, knitting late into the night, her fingers aching, just to give me something from her heart. And I had brushed it aside without a second thought.
My daughter fastened the chain around her neck, the locket resting over her heart. “She must have really loved you,” she whispered.
I nodded, unable to speak. At that moment, I silently promised my grandmother that I would cherish the cardigan—and the lesson—forever. Sometimes, the greatest treasures aren’t wrapped in shiny paper. They’re hidden in plain sight, waiting for the day we’re ready to understand their worth.
