For weeks, I visited my father’s grave, finding small knitted gloves left behind. One day, I saw a teenage boy holding another pair, and I knew I had to find out why.
Sitting by the grave, I reflected on our last years—silent, filled with pride and stubbornness. Dad had raised me alone, and though we fought over my choices, we never spoke again before his death.
Each week, new gloves appeared: red, blue, pink, and yellow. Then, one day, I saw the boy again. His name was Lucas, and he had been receiving gloves from my father before he passed. Dad had even taught him to knit.
Lucas explained that Dad had helped him when he had nothing, and he made the gloves to honor him. Overcome with emotion, I asked to buy them back, but Lucas insisted they were mine.
As I held the gloves, I realized my father had always loved me, and he had forgiven me long before I’d ever forgiven him.
