Emily handed me a pair of woollen socks, neatly folded, their soft hue warm against my palms.
“Don’t you like these?” I asked, running my thumb over the intricate stitches. “They’re cosy, well-made—perfect for autumn.”
Katie shrugged, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “The colours are outdated. My son would never wear something like this. My mother-in-law keeps knitting things—our wardrobes are overflowing.”
With a sigh, I took the socks and placed them beside the jumper she’d given me on my last birthday.
Margaret Edwards, her mother-in-law, had recently retired. She lived in a quiet cottage in York, her hands always busy with needles and yarn. They worked wonders—hats, jumpers, scarves—each piece so lovingly made you could hardly look away. Yet her thriftiness sometimes backfired.
Margaret would unravel old jumpers to knit something new for her grandchildren, leaving the wool knotted and frayed. The colours were never quite right, the styles a little dated. So Katie either tossed them or passed them on, never bothering to unwrap them properly.
But for her grandchildren, Margaret spared no effort. She spent her modest pension on the finest wool, hunched for hours over her work, pouring love into every stitch. These socks were no exception—soft, warm, flawless. Holding them, I could almost feel the care she’d stitched in, hoping to wrap her grandson in warmth.
One day, I glanced out my window and froze. The neighbour’s boy was running around in a hat Katie had tried to offload on me. The same had happened with a waistcoat, a scarf—everything Margaret made with devotion was given away without a second thought. How could anyone be so callous? These weren’t just clothes—they were pieces of an old woman’s heart, stitched together in hope.
The socks fit my daughter perfectly. She pranced around in them, giggling at how soft they were. I’d have gladly paid for such craftsmanship, but where would I find it? I suggested Katie talk to Margaret, explain what didn’t appeal—so she wouldn’t waste her time.
Katie waved me off. “Why bother? Easier to pass them on than argue. She’d never understand.”
I clenched my fists, anger simmering—not for me, but for Margaret. This woman, with her worn hands and quiet kindness, spent hours hunched over knitting, thinking of her grandson. And her efforts were tossed aside without so much as a thank-you.
Katie complained constantly—Margaret meddled too much, gave unwanted advice. But I saw only indifference. She wasn’t just knitting—she was reaching out, trying to stay close to a family that barely visited. And Katie brushed her off like an inconvenience.
One afternoon, I snapped. We sat in her living room as she shoved another knitted jumper my way—this one for her son. I held it up: immaculate stitches, delicate pattern. I imagined Margaret in her armchair, counting each loop, making sure it was perfect.
“Do you have any idea how much work this is?” I demanded. “She makes these for your son, and you don’t even look at them!”
Katie rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t start. It’s easier to give them away than explain they’re not stylish. She’d only take offence.”
I bit my tongue, fury churning inside. It hurt, seeing her dismiss Margaret’s devotion. Did the old woman suspect? Did she stay silent just to keep the peace?
Now I’m torn. Do I take the things Katie offers, complicit in her disregard? Or refuse and risk our friendship? Every time my daughter wears those socks, guilt gnaws at me. Margaret’s work deserves respect—not to be stuffed in strangers’ drawers.
What do I do?
