Inside the pocket was a tiny folded envelope, yellowed with age. My daughter carefully opened it, and a silver necklace slipped into her palm. Wrapped around the chain was a handwritten note in Grandma’s unmistakable shaky handwriting: “For the girl who wears this after you.” I felt my throat tighten. Grandma had somehow imagined that one day I might have a daughter, even though I was only eighteen when she gave me the cardigan.
The note continued. She wrote that the necklace had belonged to her own mother and that she couldn’t afford an expensive birthday gift, so she had hidden something more valuable inside the sweater instead. “You may not understand why handmade things matter yet,” she wrote. “One day you will realize that time is the most expensive thing anyone can give you.” I stared at every stitch in that red cardigan differently after reading those words.
