When I turned eighteen, my grandmother gave me a gift she had spent months creating—a hand-knitted red cardigan. It wasn’t fancy or expensive, but she had poured her time, energy, and love into every stitch. Back then, I didn’t truly appreciate what that meant. I was caught up in my own world: college applications, friends, parties, and plans that felt far more important than a sweater made of yarn. I smiled, muttered a quick “Thanks, Grandma,” and moved on, never noticing how her eyes softened when I didn’t hug her or how she held my hand just a moment longer before letting go.A few weeks later, she passed away unexpectedly. The news broke something inside me, but I didn’t know how to process grief at that age. I went through the motions—funeral, condolences, polite nods—feeling empty the whole time. The red cardigan ended up folded neatly at the back of my closet. I couldn’t wear it. It was a reminder of what I had lost and how little I had appreciated her while she was still here……..CONTINUE READING IN BELOW