Now, every time Emma wears the cardigan, I see three generations of women connected through it — my grandmother’s hands that made it, my own that once neglected it, and my daughter’s that now cherish it. That little piece of red wool holds a lifetime of love — silent but powerful, ordinary but eternal.
Sometimes I still take out the note and read it again. The paper is fragile, the ink fading slightly, but the message remains clear. My grandmother’s handwriting has become shaky with age, but the warmth in her words feels alive. It’s as though she’s still whispering to me: I’m still here. I never left.
