My daughter’s fingers found something tiny and crinkly in the cardigan’s pocket—a small velvet pouch and a folded, yellowed note. My heart pounded as I read my grandmother’s delicate handwriting: “For when you need me most. Grandma, love.”

Inside the pouch was a thin gold chain with a locket. With trembling hands, I opened it. One side held a photo of me as a baby in her arms; the other, her warm, kind smile. Tears blurred my vision. I realized how long ago I’d dismissed her gift, unaware it carried so much more than yarn and stitches.

The cardigan wasn’t just a garment—it was her way of staying close, a symbol of sacrifice and love. She had spent weeks knitting it late at night, sore fingers and all, to give me something from her heart. I had taken it for granted.

My daughter clasped the locket around her neck, whispering, “She must have truly loved you.”

I nodded, unable to speak, and vowed silently to always treasure the cardigan and its lesson: the greatest treasures aren’t wrapped in fancy paper—they’re hidden in plain sight, waiting for us to see their true value.