I spent three months stitching scraps of yarn into a blanket—pieces of her baby sweater, her mother’s shawl, birthdays past. Each row carried memory and love. At Leilani’s graduation party, laughter filled the yard. I handed her the gift. She smiled politely, set it aside, and moved on. I slipped out, unnoticed.
The next morning, I saw the blanket ripped, yarn unraveling near the curb. My chest tightened. Days later, Maris called: “Brunch on Sunday? Lei wants to see you.” Hesitant, I went. In her room, the blanket lay tangled.
“I didn’t throw it away,” she said softly. “I gave it to Marcus. His mom’s heater broke—she needed warmth. I told him it was from you.” She wasn’t cruel, only nineteen, trying to help. I told her I wasn’t angry, just wished she’d told me sooner.
Weeks later, Marcus’s mom wrote: “Your blanket warmed more than my body—it reminded me of kindness I thought I’d lost.” I cried, then began a new blanket in deep blues. Love, I realized, always finds its way, even if through detours.
