My granddaughter was graduating from college. I made her a crochet—it was all I could afford. Her other grandma gifted her a new car.
My grandchild didn’t even notice my gift. I felt so little and left early. Next day, I froze when I discovered it torn to shreds in her trash.
I’d spent three months on that blanket. My fingers ached by the end of each day, but I didn’t mind. I used leftover yarns I’d saved over the years—some from when she was a baby, others from blankets I’d made her mother and aunties.
It wasn’t store-bought perfect, but it was full of stories, memories. Love.The graduation party was beautiful—white tents, catered food, and a DJ spinning ‘90s throwbacks. Her mom, my daughter Maris, had gone all out.
People laughed, danced, took pictures. When Leilani’s other grandma, Sheryl, pulled up in that silver SUV, keys in hand, people actually clapped. Leilani screamed, hugged Sheryl, cried a little.
And when she saw my gift bag, she smiled politely, said, “Aw, thank you, Grandma,” and handed it off to someone without even opening it. I stood there, still holding my plate. No one noticed.
Not even Maris, who had been so busy coordinating the photo booth. I left quietly before dessert. Didn’t even say goodbye.
The next morning, I went by to drop off a container of food I’d promised Maris, who always appreciated leftovers. Her garage bin was already on the curb. Something soft caught my eye near the top—my wrapping paper.
And when I looked closer, there it was. My blanket. Unfolded, torn down one side, yarn unraveling like guts.
I didn’t even knock on the door. I just stood there, hands shaking, tears running down into my collar. Then I left the food, got back in my car, and drove home.
That night, I didn’t sleep. The next few days were quiet. No calls, no messages.
I tried not to be petty, but the pain felt like something sharp under my ribs. I raised that girl. I babysat her while Maris worked two jobs.
I taught her to braid, to bake. And when her friends ditched her in seventh grade, it was my arms she cried into. And now, a car meant more than that?
Than me? I didn’t tell anyone—not even my church ladies, who I usually confide everything to. I couldn’t even look at the yarn basket by my couch.
Then, on Thursday, I got a text from Leilani. “Hey Grandma! Sorry I didn’t get to talk to you much at the party, it was super hectic.
Thank you for the gift!! 💕”
I stared at that message for a full minute. Then I typed:
“Did you like the blanket?”
No answer.
Two days passed. Then Maris called, casual as ever. “Hey Ma, can you come over Sunday?
I’m doing brunch. Leilani wants to see you.”
I should’ve said no. But something told me to go.
When I arrived, Leilani was waiting outside, holding something behind her back. Her face was sheepish, eyes darting. “I need to explain something,” she said, pulling me inside.
She led me to her room. On the bed was a heap of tangled yarn—the remains of my blanket. “I didn’t throw it away,” she blurted.
“I swear. I—I gave it to Marcus.”
Marcus. Her boyfriend.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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