I spent weeks knitting a blanket for my baby brother using the sweaters our mom had left behind. The last place I expected to find it was buried in the trash outside our house.
I was 15, a year ago, when my mom died giving birth to my baby brother, Andrew. For a while, the house felt as if someone had opened every window and let the warmth escape.
Nothing felt right anymore.
The first few months, it was just the three of us: my dad, baby Andrew, and me.
Andrew cried a lot during that period. Dad tried his best, but grief hung on him like a heavy coat he couldn’t take off. Some nights, he paced the living room with Andrew in his arms.
Other nights, he just sat there in silence.
I did what I could. I warmed bottles, folded tiny clothes, and rocked Andrew when Dad needed sleep.
I am still just a kid, but there wasn’t another option.
***
Three months after Mom died, Dad told me he’d started seeing someone.
Her name was Melissa.
I recognized the name. She used to be one of Mom’s friends.
She had been around the house a few times before everything happened, usually laughing a little too loudly at Dad’s jokes.
Dad said he couldn’t raise two kids alone.
So, six months later, they got married.
Melissa moved in the week after the wedding, and it felt as if someone had flipped the house upside down. Furniture got moved. Mom’s pictures slowly disappeared from the shelves.
Melissa walked through every room like she owned the place.
Dad didn’t argue.
The only person who seemed to notice how strange everything felt was my grandma, Dad’s mom. Her name was Carol, but I always just called her Grandma.
She came by almost every weekend.
Sometimes she brought casseroles. Other times, she brought small things for Andrew. But most of the time, she came to check on me.
Grandma started teaching me how to knit.
She said it would help keep my mind steady.
I liked that idea.
I was 16 when Andrew’s first birthday drew closer. The thought that he’d grow up without any real memory of Mom bothered me. He’d only hear stories about her.
So one afternoon, I opened Mom’s old closet and found the sweaters she used to wear.
There was a big red one she loved during winter, a cream one, a light pink cardigan, a white one, and one in burgundy.
An idea slowly formed in my mind.
Every evening after homework, I carefully unraveled one sweater at a time. Grandma showed me how to smooth it out. When I held all the yarns together, the colors reminded me of Mom’s closet.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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