“Mom, what’s this?” she asked, holding up the cardigan.
I froze for a moment. The sight of it brought a flood of memories — the smell of my grandmother’s tiny kitchen, her warm laughter, the way she’d hum softly while knitting. I took the cardigan from my daughter’s hands and held it close.
“It’s beautiful,” Emma said, slipping it over her shoulders. The sleeves were a little long, but it suited her. The red color looked stunning against her dark hair. She twirled in front of the mirror, smiling. Then she stopped suddenly and frowned. “Mom… there’s something in the pocket.”
I looked up, startled. “Really? After all this time?”Continue reading…
