When I turned 18, my grandma gave me a red cardigan — hand-knitted, simple, not expensive.

My heart pounded as I opened it.

Inside was a note, written in her shaky handwriting: My breath caught as I held it, feeling suddenly 18 again, too young to realize what love looked like when it wasn’t shiny or expensive.

My daughter watched me with curious eyes as I opened the envelope, and inside was a simple note: “My dear, this took me all winter to make. Every stitch has a wish for your happiness. One day you will understand the value of simple love.”

My heartbeat echoed in my ears, and the room felt still, filled with memories I had pushed away.

I remembered sitting across from her back then, distracted by teenage pride, believing gifts were only meaningful if they sparkled or came wrapped in fancy paper.

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