When my parents divorced, the judge said I was old enough to choose where I wanted to live. I was only twelve, but at that age, I thought I understood everything. What I really understood was comfort.
My dad had a big house, a backyard with a basketball hoop, and a steady income that kept my life full of shiny new things. My mom, on the other hand, lived in a cramped room behind a grocery store, working double shifts just to pay rent.
So I chose the easier life. I chose my dad.
Mom didn’t fight my decision. She just nodded, gave me a tired smile, and told me her door would always be open. Over time, our relationship faded into something distant—phone calls that lasted three minutes, birthday gifts mailed in secondhand boxes, and awkward visits twice a year. She would always greet me with a hug that felt too warm, too slow, almost unfamiliar.
On my fifteenth birthday, she came by with a small gift bag. Inside was a crocheted sweater she had clearly made herself. It was simple—cream-colored, a little uneven, the kind of thing no teenager would brag about wearing. I muttered a quick “thanks” and avoided her eyes. She didn’t say anything, but I saw the way her hands lingered on the yarn before she let it go.
I shoved the sweater into my dresser the moment she left. At the time, I was too embarrassed to realize the love woven into those uneven stitches. I cared more about brand names than the hands that worked late at night making something just for me.
Years passed. I moved out, started a job, and began building a life that looked nothing like hers. One weekend, while sorting through my childhood things, I uncovered the sweater again. It felt softer than I remembered, almost warm. A wave of guilt washed over me, but instead of dealing with it, I decided to give it away to my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Porter, who adored handmade clothing.
Later that day, my phone rang.
“Hurry and come back,” she said, breathless. “You need to check the sweater pocket!”
Confused, I rushed over. She handed me a tiny envelope she had found tucked inside a carefully stitched hidden pocket I’d never noticed. My name was written on it in my mother’s gentle cursive.
Inside was a letter—and a small savings book.
Her letter was short but full of emotion. She apologized for not being able to give me the life she wanted to. She wrote about picking up extra shifts whenever she could, and how she had put aside whatever little she had for my future. The savings book told the rest of the story: tiny deposits, sometimes just a few dollars, made month after month for over a decade.
At the bank, the teller confirmed she had never stopped saving for me—not once.
Standing there, I broke down. All those years, I had mistaken wealth for love. Yet the person with the least to give had given me the most—quietly, patiently, stitch by stitch and dollar by dollar.
I had chosen comfort, but she had chosen me.
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