When I turned 18, my grandma knitted me a red cardigan. It was all she could afford, and though I liked it, I was a teenager caught up in my own world.
I didn’t fully appreciate the love and effort she had poured into every single stitch. I just gave her a quick, dry “Thanks,” before rushing off to celebrate with my friends. She passed away only a few weeks later. The cardigan stayed folded neatly in my closet, untouched. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it, partly because it reminded me of my guilt and partly because it felt too precious.
