When I turned eighteen, my grandmother gave me a hand-knitted red cardigan—simple, soft, and full of love.

I barely noticed its value then, too caught up in college plans and teenage distractions. I thanked her quickly,

not realizing the meaning behind her lingering touch. Weeks later, she passed away unexpectedly.

Grief pushed the cardigan to the back of my closet, where it stayed for years—a quiet reminder of what I’d taken for granted.

Life moved on. I married, had a daughter named Emma, and one spring, she uncovered the forgotten box. “Mom, what’s this?” she asked,

slipping on the cardigan with a smile. Then she froze. “There’s something in the pocket.” Inside was a crumpled note in my grandmother’s

handwriting: “For my sweet girl, may this keep you warm when I no longer can. Always remember how deeply you are loved.”

Tears filled my eyes. That little piece of paper carried years of unspoken love. From then on, the cardigan became a family heirloom,

worn often by Emma, who swore she could still feel her great-grandmother’s warmth. Watching her twirl in it,

I understood—love never truly leaves; it just waits to be found again.