We made crooked scarves and lumpy blankets while finding some strange kind of peace between each dropped stitch.
Two years after Rachel passed, Michael introduced someone new. Her name was Brittany.
I wanted to be supportive, I really did. I smiled when he talked about her.
I even baked a lemon cake when they brought her over for dinner.
I told myself no one should be lonely forever, and that maybe Ella would gain a maternal figure—someone who could love her in the way I could only try to replace. But the truth is, Brittany never looked at Ella like a bonus.
She looked at her as if she were baggage.
I saw the signs early on. She’d force a tight smile when my granddaughter tried to talk to her.
She’d correct her manners in front of company, but not in that “helping her grow” way, more like a social embarrassment she wanted to smooth over.
I remember once, after I brought Ella home from a weekend with me, Brittany whispered—loud enough for me to hear—”You spoil her, Helen. That’s not doing her any favors.”
Still, I bit my tongue.
I kept hoping she’d soften with time, that maybe the chill in her tone was just nerves. But after Michael married her in a destination wedding, the coldness only deepened.
I was 62 then.
Ella, whom I’d raised almost on my own, still spent weekends with me, and her nightly calls continued like clockwork.
“Goodnight, Grandma.
I love you.”
She said it like she needed me to know. It was as if I were her anchor in a world where love was starting to feel like a prize she had to earn.
Ella was polite to Brittany, always trying to please her, but her stepmom treated her like an obligation, not a child to love.
When I visited, I’d notice the little things. Ella’s drawings were pushed to the side of the fridge, her toys hidden away in closets so “the house would look tidier.” My granddaughter’s laughter quieted the moment Brittany walked into the room.
One time, Ella whispered to me, “Grandma, she tells me I shouldn’t call her Mom, but I can’t call her Brittany either.
She says it sounds disrespectful.”
I tried to stay calm even though my heart ached. “Just call her what feels right to you, sweetheart,” I told her gently. “What matters is that you stay kind.
Don’t let her coldness freeze your heart.”
One evening, Ella sat cross-legged on my couch, fiddling with a skein of lavender yarn in her lap.
“Grandma,” she said quietly, “Brittany’s birthday is coming up. I wanna make her something. Maybe if I do, she’ll…
like me more.”
I wished to say she didn’t need Brittany’s approval. I wanted to scoop her up and tell her she was already enough. But I saw the hope in her eyes.
She was too young to understand that some people only feel big when they’re making others feel small.
So I said, “That’s a beautiful idea, sweetheart. What do you want to make?”
“A sweater,” she said, her eyes bright. “But I want it to be good.
Can you teach me the fancy stitch? The one from Mom’s old scarf?”
She’d used her savings to buy the yarn and spent the next four weeks knitting the sweater, every stitch filled with love. Every afternoon after school, she’d rush through her homework, just to sit by my side with that yarn in her lap.
She dropped stitches, picked them up again, and tried over and over until her tiny fingers ached.
But she never gave up.
Ella added white borders to the sleeves—uneven, but charming—and ensured the neckline was just the way she imagined it. When it was done, she held it up like a trophy.
“It’s not perfect,” she said, “but it’s warm. I think she’ll like it!”
I kissed the crown of her head.
“If she doesn’t, that’s her loss.”
On the day of the party, I drove Ella to their house. She wore a pale yellow dress and carried the gift in a pink paper bag she had decorated herself with stickers and glitter. I warned her gently not to expect too much, but she beamed anyway.
When Brittany opened the door, she looked like a catalog model.
Her hair was curled, lipstick flawless, and nails done in an expensive-looking shade of nude.
“Helen! You made it,” she chirped, then glanced down at Ella. “And look at you, little lady.
Don’t you look adorable.”
Ella handed her the bag with both hands.
“Happy birthday,” she said softly.
Brittany took the gift, flashed a quick smile, and placed it on a side table without a second glance.
“Thanks, sweetie. I’ll open it with the others.”
The party was a production. At least 30 people attended, all clinking glasses and laughing like they were on reality TV.
A photographer darted between groups, snapping candid shots of Brittany mid-laugh or delicately sipping champagne.
The house was decked out with flower arrangements and candles, and even a small sign that said “Brittany’s Birthday Bash: Class and Sass.”
Michael hovered near the bar, clearly out of place. He caught my eye once and gave a tired smile, but never came over. He looked like a man slowly sinking into a life he wasn’t sure he wanted.
Finally, after dinner, Brittany clapped her hands and called everyone into the living room.
She plopped onto a velvet armchair as if it were a throne, and said, “Time for gifts!”
There were designer bags, shoes, a spa voucher, fancy perfumes, monogrammed wine glasses—all expensive. She squealed, gushed, and posed after each one.
Then she reached for Ella’s bag.
“Let’s see what this little one made me,” Brittany said with a voice as sugary as syrup but stiff as cardboard.
Ella leaned forward in her seat, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Brittany opened the pink bag and pulled out the folded lavender sweater. The room went quiet.
It wasn’t just the contrast from all the shrieking and clapping earlier. There was something sacred about the way Ella watched her—eyes wide, mouth slightly open—like she was offering a piece of herself for judgment.
Her stepmom held the sweater up by the sleeves with two fingers and stared at it as if it had crawled out of the bag and surprised her.
“Oh,” she said, smiling, but not the kind of smile you give a child when you’re touched. No, it was the kind you flash when you’re trying not to gag in public.
“You made this yourself, sweetie?”
Ella nodded.
“Yes, I did. Grandma helped me a little, but I did most of it myself. I learned how to knit, and I wanted to make you something really special.”
Brittany let out a single laugh—not amused, not warm, but cutting.
“Well, isn’t that…
adorable,” she said, holding the sweater against her chest. “A little homespun number. Very…
rustic.”
Someone in the crowd gave an awkward chuckle. Another cleared their throat.
Then she added, “But oh, honey, you should’ve asked me what I wanted. Couldn’t you have asked your father to buy me something decent?
And this color… ugh. Sorry, dear, but this sweater is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen!”
She turned toward the crowd and chuckled, holding the sweater out like a comedy prop.
“But hey, it’s the thought that counts, right?”
The room tittered. A few of her friends offered pitying smiles.
One woman mouthed something to another, and they laughed behind their wine glasses.
Ella’s face crumbled as her eyes filled with tears.
That was my breaking point. I stood up.
The sound of my chair scraping the hardwood silenced the whole room.
I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t need to.
“You’re right, Brittany,” I said.
“It’s not from an expensive store. It didn’t come in a fancy box or with a price tag.”
She let out a forced little laugh. “Oh, Helen, it’s just a bit of fun—”
“No,” I said, walking across the room, every step deliberate.
“It’s not fun, it’s cruel. That little girl spent weeks knitting that sweater with love and hope, and her own two hands. And you mocked her in front of 30 people.”
Brittany blinked, still holding the sweater awkwardly, as though unsure what to do with it now.
“Well, I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings,” she said with a shrug.
“It’s just a bit childish, don’t you think? It’s fine to get handmade items when you’re a child. I mean, what am I supposed to do with this as an adult?”
I ignored her question and picked up the small, shiny golden box I had placed under my chair earlier.
It was tied with a ribbon Ella had chosen.
“Tonight, I also brought a gift too. It’s something much more valuable,” I said, walking toward her and placing the box on the table. “Since you care so much about grown-up gifts.”
Brittany looked hesitant but reached out anyway.
Her eyes lit up, and she rubbed her hands together, thinking it was another extravagant gift. Then she opened the lid and stared.
“What is this?” she asked, lifting out a white envelope resting atop folded papers.
“The deed to my house,” I simply said. “Signed over to Ella this morning.”
The room gasped.
Brittany blinked like someone had thrown cold water in her face.
“You…
gave your house to her?”
“That’s right,” I said. “That’s the house Rachel grew up in. It’s where Ella made that sweater, where she learned to braid, and how to grieve.
It’s full of love, the kind you clearly don’t recognize.”
Brittany’s lips parted, but nothing came out. She just sat there, sweater in one hand, envelope in the other, her cheeks burning red.
I leaned in just enough for her to hear me clearly.
“So next time you humiliate a child in your own living room, remember—you might be standing in her house.”
No one laughed or clapped this time. Even the music had stopped playing.
Michael stood near the kitchen, jaw tight, his eyes flicking from me to Ella and back again.
He didn’t move.
I turned to the guests.
“Thank you all for a… memorable evening,” I said, then held my hand out to Ella.
She rose quietly and took it. We walked out together, past the glittering lights, the expensive candle displays, and the woman who thought cruelty was fashionable.
Outside, the autumn air hit us like a clean slate.
Ella looked up at me, her cheeks flushed, her lip trembling.
“Grandma…” she whispered.
“That was really big. What you did.”
I knelt beside her and cupped her face in my hands.
“Sweetheart,” I said gently, “some people need to learn that kindness is a gift too. And if they can’t appreciate it, then they don’t deserve to receive it.”
Her eyes welled up, but she blinked the tears away.
We drove home in silence, our hands joined on the center console.
That lavender sweater sat folded on her lap again, just like it had before the party—only this time it seemed heavier, like it had absorbed the night.
When we got to the house, her house now, she laid the sweater on the couch, smoothed out the sleeves, and said softly, “Maybe I’ll make another one someday. For someone who deserves it.”
I hugged her close and whispered, “That’s my girl!”
The next morning, the doorbell rang. I opened it to find Michael standing there, eyes tired, face drawn.
“I didn’t know it was that bad,” he said.
“I didn’t know she was treating Ella like that.”
I leaned against the doorframe.
“Yes, you did,” I said gently. “You just didn’t want to look at it too closely.”
He lowered his head. “You’re right.”
He paused, then looked up again.
“Thank you.
For protecting her. I should have been the one.”
“It’s not too late,” I said. “She still needs you.”
He nodded.
From that day on, he started showing up again.
Not in dramatic ways—no grand gestures—but small ones. He came to pick Ella up from school. He asked about her art club and joined us for dinner on Fridays.
Michael even began becoming a father again, not just a man passing through the wreckage.
Brittany didn’t reach out.
She didn’t apologize. The party photos never made it to social media, and people talked. A few mutual friends told me she was furious about being embarrassed, but not once did she mention Ella or the sweater.
Good.
Let her stew in that silence.
Ella, on the other hand, grew bolder.
She joined the school’s knitting club and helped younger kids learn basic stitches.
She donated scarves to the shelter. She made a blanket for a girl in her class whose mom had cancer. One evening, while we were sipping cocoa on the porch swing, she said, “Grandma, I think maybe people need more warm things.
Not just on the outside. On the inside, too.”
I smiled so hard it hurt.
“Oh, sweetheart,” I said, “that’s exactly what your mother used to say.”
