The daughter-in-law was handing out things knitted with love by her mother-in-law for the grandchildren.
“What’s wrong with these socks? They’re warm, neatly made, such a gentle, cozy colour. Autumn’s coming, the cold, it’s just the season for them,” I asked Emily, holding the pair of woollen socks she’d just passed to me.
“It’s just… the pattern’s a bit old-fashioned,” Emily brushed it off, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve got a son. He wouldn’t wear this. And my mother-in-law’s already knitted so much, the wardrobe’s bursting. Can’t keep it all.”
“Alright, give them here,” I sighed, taking the socks and adding them to the knitted jumper she’d given me for my birthday.
Margaret Wilson, my friend’s mother-in-law, had recently retired. She lived in a small cottage in Yorkshire and was a true magician with her hands. Her needles and yarn worked wonders—hats, jumpers, socks—all turned out so lovely you couldn’t look away. But her thrifty nature sometimes played a cruel trick on her.
Margaret could unravel an old cardigan just to knit something new for the grandchildren. These things often looked unkempt, with knots and worn patches, hardly fashionable. She wasn’t fussy about colours either, using whatever scraps came to hand. So Emily, her daughter-in-law, either threw them out or gave them away without even unwrapping them.
But for the grandchildren, Margaret poured her heart into it. She spent her modest savings on good-quality wool, sitting for hours, pouring love and care into every stitch. Those socks Emily had handed me were a work of art—soft, warm, with a neat pattern. Holding them, I could feel the warmth she’d meant for her grandson.
Once, glancing out the window, I froze—the neighbour’s boy was running around in the very hat Emily had tried to pawn off on me. The same went for the waistcoat and scarf—everything Margaret had knitted with feeling, Emily gave away without even trying them on her son. I couldn’t fathom how anyone could do that. These weren’t just clothes—they held a piece of an old woman’s heart, trying to bring joy to her grandchildren.
The socks Emily gave me fit my daughter perfectly. I slipped them on her, and she stomped around happily, boasting about how soft they were. I’d have gladly bought a pair like that, but where would you find them? I suggested Emily talk to her mother-in-law, explain which styles she didn’t like, so Margaret wouldn’t waste her time. But Emily just waved me off:
“Oh, what’s the point? Easier to give them away than argue. She wouldn’t understand anyway.”
Looking at her, I felt resentment simmering inside. Not for me—for Margaret. This woman, with her worn hands and kind heart, sat for hours over each stitch, thinking of her grandson. And her effort was thrown out or passed to strangers without so much as a thank you.
Emily kept complaining about her mother-in-law—always interfering, always offering advice. But all I saw was indifference. Margaret wasn’t just knitting—she was trying to stay close to her family, to the grandson she saw once a month. Instead of valuing her efforts, Emily brushed her off like a bothersome fly.
One day, I snapped. We were at hers, and she was handing out yet another of Margaret’s gifts—this time, a cardigan for her son. I took it in my hands—soft wool, delicate pattern, flawless seams. I pictured Margaret in her old armchair, counting stitches, making sure everything was perfect. And I couldn’t hold back:
“Emily, do you even realise how much work goes into this? She’s doing it for your son, and you don’t even look at what she makes!”
She rolled her eyes.
“Oh, don’t start. It’s easier to pass them on than explain they’re not stylish. She’d get upset anyway.”
I stayed silent, but inside, I was seething. It hurt, thinking of Margaret, her efforts unappreciated. I wondered how she’d feel if she knew her gifts were given away. Maybe she already suspected but kept quiet, not wanting to quarrel with her son and daughter-in-law.
Now I’m torn—should I take what Emily offers, or refuse? If I take it, it’s like condoning her indifference. If I refuse, she’ll take offence, and our friendship will crack. But every time I put those socks on my daughter, I feel guilty towards Margaret. Her work deserves respect, not to gather dust in someone else’s drawer.
What should I do?
