She had hidden them in the pocket of the cardigan she knitted herself—the only wrapping she could afford, the only way she knew to give me something special. And I had brushed her off. I held those tickets and sobbed until my chest ached.
Not gentle tears—ugly, shaking grief that came from realizing love too late. All she had wanted was to see me smile. To give me joy in the only way she could.
My daughter sat beside me, silent, her arm around my shoulders. Now, I wear that cardigan often. Around the house.
On cold mornings. Sometimes, I even sleep in it. The wool is soft from years of waiting.
It smells faintly of laundry soap and something comforting I can’t quite name. It doesn’t just keep me warm. It reminds me.
This moment—years too late—taught me something unforgettable: be kind to people, even when you’re distracted, even when you think you have time. Love doesn’t always come wrapped the way we expect. That cardigan was never just a sweater.
It was the last lesson my grandmother gave me—and the most precious gift she ever left behind.
