When I turned eighteen, my grandmother gave me a gift she had spent months working on — a hand-knitted red cardigan. It wasn’t store-bought or expensive, but she had poured her time, energy, and love into every single stitch. At that age, though, I didn’t fully understand what that meant. I was too wrapped up in my own world — college applications, friends, parties, plans that all seemed so much bigger than a piece of yarn and wool. I smiled politely, said a half-hearted “Thanks, Grandma,” and moved on. I didn’t notice how her eyes softened when I didn’t hug her or how she held my hand just a moment longer before letting go.
A few weeks later, she passed away unexpectedly. The news shattered something inside me, but like most eighteen-year-olds, I didn’t know how to process grief. I went through the motions — the funeral, the condolences, the polite nods — all while feeling hollow. The red cardigan ended up folded neatly at the back of my closet. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it. It reminded me too much of what I’d lost — and of how little I had appreciated her when I still could.
