In my early years, I never understood that tenderness could hide within ordinary objects. I believed love required dramatic gestures or unmistakable symbols, never imagining it could linger quietly in something as simple as a wool cardigan. Only when I watched my daughter slip her arms into its familiar sleeves did the deeper truth reveal itself. My grandmother had not given me just a garment; she had entrusted me with a promise. She believed that when my youthful distractions faded, her care would rise again from that folded piece of clothing and guide me back to her presence
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