When my parents divorced, I lived with my dad because he was much wealthier than my mom. She and I were never very close.
On my 15th birthday, she gave me a crocheted sweater. I muttered a quick thanks and shoved it into my dresser, too embarrassed to wear it.
Years later, while cleaning out my things, I decided to give the sweater to my neighbor. Not long after, she called me in a panic and said, “Hurry! You have to check the sweater pocket!” Inside, I found an envelope with a letter from my mom and a small savings book in my name.
Page after page showed deposits she had made since I was a child. At the bank, I learned she had continued saving all these years.
I broke down. Even with so little, she had done everything she could for me, quietly preparing for my future, stitch by stitch, year after year.