The daughter-in-law was handing out items lovingly knitted by her mother-in-law for the grandchildren.
“Honestly, what’s wrong with these socks?” I asked Katie, holding up a pair of woolly ones she’d just passed me. “They’re warm, neat, and the colour’s so soft and cosy. Autumn’s coming, chilly nights—perfect timing!”
Katie just flicked her hair back. “The colour’s a bit granny-chic, don’t you think? My son would never wear them. And my mother-in-law’s knitted so much, the drawers are bursting. Can’t possibly keep it all.”
With a sigh, I took the socks and added them to the growing pile next to the jumper she’d “gifted” me for my birthday.
Mary Whitaker—my best mate’s mum-in-law—had recently retired. She lived in a little cottage in Norwich and was practically a knitting wizard. Needles and yarn turned into magic under her fingers: hats, jumpers, socks—all so lovely you couldn’t look away. But her thrifty nature sometimes got the better of her.
Mary would unravel an old cardigan to knit something new for the grandkids. Problem was, the results were often knotty, worn-looking, and decidedly unstylish. And colours? She wasn’t fussy—whatever was lying around. So Katie, daughter-in-law extraordinaire, either chucked them or gave them away without a second glance.
But for her grandkids, Mary put in the extra effort. She’d dig into her modest pension to buy decent yarn, spending hours hunched over, stitching love and care into every loop. These socks were practically gallery-worthy: soft, snug, with a neat little pattern. Holding them, you could *feel* the warmth she’d poured in, willing it to reach her grandson.
One day, I spotted the neighbour’s kid sprinting around in a hat—the same one Katie had tried fobbing off on me. Same story with a waistcoat and scarf. Everything Mary poured her heart into, Katie distributed like unwanted party favours. How could she? These weren’t just bits of clothing—they were little pieces of a kind old woman’s heart, aching to connect.
The socks? Fit my daughter *perfectly*. She pranced around, bragging about how cosy they were. I’d have happily paid good money for a pair like that—but good luck finding them in shops. I suggested Katie talk to Mary, maybe explain which styles didn’t work. But she just waved a hand.
“Ugh, why bother? Easier to offload them than argue. She’d *never* get it.”
I stared, resentment bubbling. Not for me—for Mary. This woman with her rough, tired hands and too-soft heart, counting stitches late into the night, dreaming of her grandson. And her work got tossed or handed off without so much as a “cheers.”
Katie carried on moaning—mother-in-law too nosy, too opinionated. All I heard was indifference. Mary wasn’t just knitting; she was trying to *reach* them, to be part of a family that only swung by once a month. And Katie? Couldn’t be bothered.
Then came the final straw. We were at hers, and out came another reject—a cardigan for her son. I ran a hand over it: soft wool, intricate pattern, flawless seams. I pictured Mary in her worn armchair, counting rows, determined to get it *just right*. And I snapped.
“Katie, do you even *realise* how much work goes into this? She’s doing it for *your* kid, and you won’t even *look* at it?”
Eyes rolled skyward. “Oh, here we go. Easier to pass it on than explain ‘granny-core’ isn’t a trend. She’d only get upset.”
I bit my tongue. But inside? Boiling. It *hurt*, imagining Mary’s face if she ever found out. Maybe she already suspected—just biting her lip to keep the peace.
Now I’m stuck: take the things Katie shoves my way and feel complicit, or refuse and risk a row. But every time my girl wears those socks, guilt prickles. Mary’s work deserves *better* than collecting dust in a stranger’s drawer.
What do I *do*?
