Three Months of Love in Every Stitch
This wasn’t just any blanket. I’d spent three months on that blanket. The effort was huge; my fingers ached by the end of each day, but I didn’t mind. I had put my heart and history into it, using leftover yarns I’d saved over the years. Some threads were from when Leilani was a baby, and others were from blankets I’d made her mother and aunties. It wasn’t store-bought perfect, but it was full of stories, memories. Love.
The graduation party itself was beautiful—white tents, catered food, and a DJ spinning ‘90s throwbacks. Her mom, my daughter Maris, had gone all out. The atmosphere was joyful. People laughed, danced, and took pictures. The excitement peaked when Leilani’s other grandma, Sheryl, pulled up in that silver SUV, keys in hand, people actually clapped. Leilani screamed, hugged Sheryl, cried a little. But when she saw my gift bag, she simply smiled politely, said, “Aw, thank you, Grandma,” and handed it off to someone without even opening it.
The Heartbreaking Discovery
The next morning, I drove over to drop off a container of food I’d promised Maris, who always appreciated leftovers. As I pulled up, her garage bin was already on the curb. Something soft caught my eye near the top—my wrapping paper. And when I looked closer, there it was. My blanket. It was unfolded, torn down one side, with the yarn unraveling like guts. It was a terrible sight.
I didn’t even knock on the door. The sight was so upsetting that I just stood there, hands shaking, tears running down into my collar. I managed to leave the food, got back in my car, and drove home, my heart aching. That night, I didn’t sleep at all.
Waiting and Wondering
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