When my parents divorced, I chose to live with my dad. He had money, stability—things my mom didn’t. We were never very close after that.
On my 15th birthday, she gave me a crocheted sweater. I remember feeling embarrassed. It wasn’t something I’d wear, not compared to what my friends had. I muttered a quick “thanks” and shoved it into a drawer, where it stayed for years.
I barely thought about it again.
Much later, while cleaning out old вещей, I decided to give the sweater to my neighbor. It felt like just another thing I didn’t need. But not long after, she called me in a panic.
“You need to come back—check the pocket!”
Confused, I rushed over. Inside the sweater, tucked deep in the pocket, was an envelope. My hands were shaking as I opened it.
There was a letter from my mom… and a small savings book in my name.
Page after page showed deposits—small amounts, but steady. She had been saving for me since I was a child. Even after I left, even when we barely spoke, she kept going.
At the bank, they confirmed it. She had continued adding to it all those years.
I broke down right there.
That sweater I was too embarrassed to wear… was filled with love I never took the time to see.
