Now, when I watch my daughter wrap herself in that red cardigan, I don’t see loss anymore. I see continuity. I see love that survived the years, that skipped a generation but never truly left. My grandmother’s gift wasn’t just wool and thread — it was comfort, connection, and memory, waiting patiently to be rediscovered.
And sometimes, on quiet nights, when I catch my daughter curled up on the couch wearing it, I swear I can almost hear my grandmother’s soft laugh — the sound of love, still wrapping around us, warm and unbroken.
