Emily was handing out items knitted by her mother-in-law with love for her grandchildren.
“What’s wrong with these socks? They’re warm, neatly made, and such a soft, cosy colour. Autumn’s coming—perfect timing for them,” I asked, holding the pair of woollen socks she’d just given me.
“The pattern’s a bit old-fashioned,” Emily shrugged, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “My son would never wear them. My mother-in-law’s knitted so much already, the wardrobe’s bursting—we can’t keep it all.”
“Fine, give them here,” I sighed, taking the socks and adding them to the knitted jumper Emily had gifted me for my birthday.
Margaret Williams, my friend’s mother-in-law, had recently retired. She lived in a cosy cottage in York and was a true wizard with her knitting needles. Her creations were stunning—hats, jumpers, socks—all crafted with such care you couldn’t help but admire them. But her thrifty nature sometimes played tricks on her.
Margaret would unravel old jumpers to make something new for her grandchildren, but the results often looked shabby, with knots and worn threads—hardly stylish. She never fuss over colours either, using whatever yarn she had on hand. So Emily, her daughter-in-law, either tossed her gifts or passed them on without even unwrapping them.
But for her grandchildren, Margaret poured her heart into it. She spent her modest savings on quality yarn, working for hours, weaving love into every stitch. These socks Emily had given me were a masterpiece—soft, warm, perfectly patterned. Holding them, I could feel the warmth she’d meant for her grandson.
Once, I glanced out the window and froze—the neighbour’s boy was running around in the very hat Emily had tried to offload onto me. It was the same with the waistcoat and scarf—everything Margaret knitted with love, Emily gave away without even trying them on her son. I couldn’t understand it. These weren’t just clothes—they held a piece of an old woman’s heart, her way of showing love.
The socks fit my daughter perfectly. She toddled around the house, grinning about how soft they were. I’d have happily bought a pair like them, but where? I suggested Emily talk to Margaret, explain what she didn’t like, so her time wasn’t wasted. But Emily just waved me off:
“Oh, what’s the point? Easier to give them away than argue. She wouldn’t understand anyway.”
Watching her, I felt resentment simmering—not for myself, but for Margaret. This woman, with her worn hands and kind heart, spent hours on every stitch, thinking of her grandson. And her effort was thrown out or given to strangers without so much as a thank-you.
Emily carried on complaining—Margaret was too interfering, always offering advice. But to me, it just seemed like indifference. Margaret wasn’t just knitting—she was trying to stay close to her family, to the grandson she barely saw. And instead of appreciating it, Emily brushed her off like a bothersome fly.
One day, I snapped. We were at Emily’s, and she started handing out another of Margaret’s gifts—a cardigan for her son. I took it, feeling the soft wool, the delicate pattern, flawless seams. I pictured Margaret in her old armchair, counting stitches to get it just right.
“Emily, do you have any idea how much work went into this? She’s doing this for your son, and you don’t even look at it!”
Emily rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t start. It’s easier to pass them on than explain they’re not trendy. She’d only get upset.”
I stayed quiet, but inside, I was fuming. It hurt, seeing Margaret’s effort go unappreciated. I wondered how she’d feel, knowing her gifts were given away. Maybe she already guessed but stayed quiet to keep the peace.
Now I’m stuck—should I take what Emily offers or refuse? If I do, it feels like enabling her indifference. If I don’t, she’ll take offence, and our friendship might fray. Yet every time my daughter wears those socks, I feel guilty. Margaret’s work deserves respect, not to gather dust in someone else’s drawer.
What should I do?
