—What’s wrong with these socks? They’re warm, neat, and such a soft, cosy colour. Autumn’s coming, and it’ll be chilly—perfect for them, I asked Kathy, holding up the pair of woollen socks she’d just handed me.
—They look a bit old-fashioned, Kathy waved me off, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. My son would never wear something like this. And my mother-in-law has knitted so much already, the wardrobe’s bursting. I can’t possibly keep it all.
—Fine, give them here, I sighed, taking the socks and adding them to the knitted jumper Kathy had given me for my birthday.
Margaret Wilson, my friend’s mother-in-law, had recently retired. She lived in a small cottage in York and was a true wizard with her knitting needles. Hats, jumpers, socks—everything she made was so lovely you couldn’t look away. But her thrifty nature sometimes played tricks on her.
Margaret would unravel old jumpers to knit something new for her grandchildren. The results often looked shabby, with knots and worn patches, and you couldn’t call them stylish. She didn’t fuss over colours either, using whatever yarn was at hand. So Kathy, the daughter-in-law, either threw the gifts away or passed them on to friends without even unwrapping them.
But for her grandchildren, Margaret gave it her all. She spent her modest savings on good-quality wool, sitting for hours as she worked, pouring love and care into every stitch. The socks Kathy had just given me were a masterpiece—soft, warm, with an intricate pattern. Holding them, I could feel the warmth Margaret had wanted to pass on to her grandson.
Once, I glanced out the window and froze—the neighbour’s boy was running around in the very hat Kathy had tried to pawn off on me. The same thing had happened with a cardigan and a scarf—everything Margaret made with such heart, Kathy gave away without even trying them on her son. I couldn’t understand how she could do that. These weren’t just clothes—they carried a piece of an elderly woman’s heart, someone who just wanted to bring her grandchildren joy.
The socks Kathy gave me fit my daughter perfectly. She pranced around the house, thrilled with how soft they were. I’d have happily bought a pair like this in a shop, but where would you even find them? I suggested Kathy talk to her mother-in-law, explain which things she didn’t like, so Margaret wouldn’t waste her time. But Kathy just shrugged.
—Oh, what’s the point? It’s easier to give them away than argue with her. She wouldn’t understand anyway.
Looking at her, I felt resentment bubble up inside—not for myself, but for Margaret. That woman, with her work-worn hands and kind heart, spent hours on every stitch, thinking of her grandson. And her efforts were tossed out or handed off to strangers without so much as a thank you.
Kathy kept complaining about her mother-in-law—how she interfered too much, how she was always offering unwanted advice. But all I saw was indifference. Margaret wasn’t just knitting—she was trying to stay close to her family, to a grandson she only saw once a month. And Kathy, instead of appreciating it, brushed her off like a pesky fly.
One day, I snapped. We were at Kathy’s place, and she was once again handing out her mother-in-law’s gifts—this time, a little 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 just right. And I couldn’t hold back.
—Kathy, do you have any idea how much work went into this? She’s doing this for your son, and you don’t even bother looking at what she’s made!
Kathy rolled her eyes.
—Oh, don’t start. It’s easier to pass them on than explain that they’re not in style. She’d only get upset.
I stayed quiet, but inside, I was seething. It hurt, seeing this woman’s efforts go unappreciated. I wondered how Margaret would feel if she knew her gifts were being given away. Maybe she already suspected but kept quiet to avoid conflict.
Now I’m left with a choice—should I take the things Kathy offers or refuse? If I take them, it feels like I’m enabling her indifference. If I don’t, she’ll be offended, and our friendship might suffer. But every time I put those socks on my daughter, I feel guilty toward Margaret. Her work deserves respect, not to gather dust in someone else’s drawer.
What should I do?
