I was too young to understand.

She passed away just a few weeks later. The cardigan stayed folded in my closet — untouched. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it. Partly because it reminded me of her, but mostly because I felt guilty for not appreciating it when I had the chance.

Life moved on — college, marriage, motherhood. Yet the cardigan remained hidden away, like a quiet memory I wasn’t ready to face.

Then one afternoon, while cleaning with my fifteen-year-old daughter, she came across it.

Without hesitation, she slipped her arms into the sleeves. I nodded, giving her silent permission. But she paused. “Mom, there’s something in the pocket.”

My heart skipped as I reached inside and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper — yellowed with age but carefully preserved.

With trembling hands, I opened it.

In my grandmother’s beautiful handwriting, it read:

“May this keep