When I turned 18, my grandma knitted me a red cardigan. I barely thanked her, never wore it, and weeks later she passed away.
Years later, my daughter Mila tried it on and found a hidden note: “Look under the floorboard, third plank in the sewing room.” We returned to Grandma’s old house and uncovered a tin box with cash, her wedding ring, and a letter: “You reminded me of myself—strong, stubborn. Don’t be ashamed of your softness.”
I once thought the cardigan was nothing. Now it’s the most valuable thing I own—a quiet reminder that love sometimes waits, hidden, until we’re ready to see it.
