My daughter-in-law was handing out items knitted by my mother-in-law with love for the grandchildren.
“What’s wrong with this pair of socks? They’re warm, neatly made, and the colour’s soft and cosy. Autumn’s coming, the cold’s setting in—it’s the perfect time for them,” I asked Emily, holding up the woollen socks she’d just passed to me.
“The pattern’s just so old-fashioned,” she dismissed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve got a son—he’d never wear these. And Mother-in-law’s knitted so much already, the wardrobe’s overflowing. No way we’ll get through it all.”
“Fine, give them here,” I sighed, taking the socks and putting them next to the knitted jumper Emily had once given me for my birthday.
Margaret Williams, my friend’s mother-in-law, had recently retired. She lived in a modest house in York and was an absolute wizard with her knitting needles. Her hands worked magic—hats, jumpers, socks, all so lovely you couldn’t look away. But her thrifty habits sometimes worked against her.
Margaret would unravel old jumpers to reuse the wool for new things for the grandkids. Those pieces often looked ragged, full of knots and faded patches, hardly fashionable. And she wasn’t fussy about colours—just used whatever came to hand. So Emily, her daughter-in-law, either tossed the gifts or gave them away without even unwrapping them.
But for her grandchildren, Margaret poured her heart into it. She spent her modest pension on good-quality yarn, hours bent over her work, weaving love into every stitch. Those socks Emily handed me were a labour of love—soft, warm, with a careful pattern. Holding them, I could almost feel the warmth she’d meant for her grandson.
Once, glancing out the window, I froze—the neighbour’s boy was running about in the same hat Emily had tried passing off to me. The same went for the waistcoat and scarf—all things Margaret had made with care, all handed away without ever touching her son’s shoulders. I couldn’t fathom it. These weren’t just clothes—they held pieces of an old woman’s heart, hoping to bring joy.
The socks fit my daughter perfectly. She pranced around the house, chuffed about how cosy they were. I’d have gladly bought a pair like them, but where? I suggested Emily talk to her mother-in-law—explain what she didn’t like, so Margaret wouldn’t waste her time. But Emily just shrugged.
“Oh, why bother? Easier to pass them on than argue. She wouldn’t get it anyway.”
Looking at her, I felt something simmer inside—not for me, but for Margaret. Here was a woman with rough hands and a soft heart, counting stitches late into the night, thinking of her grandson. And her work was tossed aside or given away without a second glance.
Emily kept complaining—her mother-in-law meddled too much, offered too much advice. But all I saw was indifference. Margaret wasn’t just knitting—she was reaching out, trying to stay close to a family who barely saw her, to a grandson she met once a month. And Emily, instead of appreciating the effort, swatted it away like a bothersome fly.
One day, I’d had enough. We were at Emily’s, and she was offloading yet another of Margaret’s gifts—a little cardigan for her son. I held it up—soft wool, intricate pattern, perfect seams. I pictured Margaret in her worn armchair, counting stitches, making sure it was just right. I snapped.
“Emily, do you even realise the work that goes into this? She does this for your son, and you don’t even look at it!”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, come off it. Easier to pass it on than explain it’s not ‘in.’ She’d only take offence.”
I stayed quiet, but inside, I was seething. It hurt, watching this woman’s efforts go unnoticed. I wondered how Margaret would feel if she ever found out her gifts were given away. Maybe she already knew—maybe she stayed silent, just to keep the peace.
Now I’m stuck—do I take the things Emily offers, or refuse? If I take them, it’s like condoning her carelessness. If I say no, she’ll take it personally, and our friendship will crack. But every time I put those socks on my daughter, I feel guilty. Margaret’s work deserves better than to gather dust in someone else’s drawer.
What should I do?
