When I turned 18, my grandma gave me a red cardigan —
hand-knitted, simple, not expensive.
I smiled and said, “Thanks.” That was it.
Fifteen years passed.
Yesterday, my 15-year-old daughter found it in a box and said,
“Can I try it on?”
The moment she slipped her hand in the pocket, we froze.
There was a tiny folded envelope — with my name on it.
My heart pounded as I opened it.
Inside was a note, written in her shaky handwriting: My breath caught as I held it, feeling suddenly 18 again, too young to realize what love looked like when it wasn’t shiny or expensive.
My daughter watched me with curious eyes as I opened the envelope, and inside was a simple note: “My dear, this took me all winter to make. Every stitch has a wish for your happiness. One day you will understand the value of simple love.”
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