For weeks, I visited my father’s grave, only to find small knitted gloves left behind. Each time, a different pair, each one deepening the mystery. But the day I saw a teenage boy standing there, clutching another pair, I knew I had to uncover the truth.
A Month of Grief and Unanswered Questions
The autumn wind howled through the cemetery, carrying the scent of damp earth and fallen leaves. I wrapped my arms around myself, bracing against the cold as I stood before my father’s headstone.
A month. It had been a month since he passed.
A month of restless nights, of staring at my phone, wishing—just for a moment—that I could call him. But I never would again.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
The words felt small, fragile, like they could break under the weight of my regret.
I had said them a dozen times before, each visit a quiet confession to the father I had lost. But they never felt like enough.
Three years. That’s how long we had spent in silence, neither of us willing to make the first move. Three years of stubborn pride, of waiting, of wasted time.
I crouched down, brushing away dried leaves that had settled at the base of his headstone. That’s when I saw them—a small pair of red knitted gloves, neatly placed as if left with care.
They were tiny, child-sized. Handmade.
I picked them up, turning them over in my hands. The wool was soft, the stitches meticulous.
Who would leave these here?
I glanced around the cemetery, but there was no one in sight.
Maybe they had been misplaced. Maybe a visitor had dropped them.
Still, unease settled in my chest as I placed the gloves back down and sat beside my father’s grave.
“Hey, Dad,” I murmured, my voice barely above the wind.
I told him what I had told him so many times before—that I wished we had spoken one last time. That I wished I had just picked up the phone.
But time didn’t move backward.
And now, I would never hear his voice again.
The Rift That Kept Us Apart
My father had raised me alone. I never knew my mother—she had died when I was a baby.
He worked tirelessly, spending long days at the repair shop, grease under his nails, sweat on his brow. He never complained. He never let me go without.
“Emily,” he used to say, “you’ve got to be strong. Life doesn’t go easy on anyone.”
For years, I thought he was the wisest man in the world.
But then I grew up.
Mark made me laugh. He made me feel safe. He loved me in a way that made me sure I wanted to spend my life with him.
But my father disagreed.
“He’s got no real job,” Dad had said one evening, his arms crossed in the kitchen. “How’s he supposed to take care of you?”
“I don’t need him to take care of me,” I snapped. “I can take care of myself.”
Dad sighed, rubbing his temples. “You’re twenty, Emily. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I do!” My voice had risen. “I love him! And he loves me!”
His expression hardened. “Love doesn’t pay the bills.”
That was the first fight.
But it wasn’t the last.
When I landed my first job as a nurse at a nursing home, I was thrilled. I couldn’t wait to tell him.
But when I did, his face fell.
“A nurse? In a nursing home?” His voice was sharp, disapproving.
“Yes, Dad. That’s what I went to school for.”
He shook his head. “You’ll spend your days watching people die, Emily. That’s not the life I wanted for you.”
My hands clenched into fists. “It’s the life I want.”
“It’s my mistake to make.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re throwing your life away.”
That was the night I packed my bags.
I thought he would call.
He never did.
And now, it was too late.
The Mystery of the Knitted Gloves
A week later, I returned to my father’s grave, the guilt still heavy in my chest. But when I arrived, something made me stop in my tracks.
Another pair of gloves.
This time, they were blue.
I swallowed hard as I picked them up, turning them over in my hands. They were just like the red ones—small, handmade.
Who was leaving them?
I set them beside the first pair, unease curling in my stomach. Was it a relative I didn’t know? A tradition I wasn’t aware of?
The thought nagged at me, but I let it go.
I had come here to talk to my father, so I did.
I told him about work. About Mark. About how much I missed him.
The next week, I found another pair. Pink this time. The week after that, green. Then yellow.
Each time, the gloves were neatly placed, as if someone had carefully arranged them just for him.
It became an obsession.
I needed to know who was leaving them.
The Boy at the Grave
The following week, I arrived early—long before the sun dipped behind the trees.
As I walked through the cemetery, my heart pounded. Would I find another pair?
Instead, I found a boy.
He looked about thirteen, standing in front of my father’s grave. He was thin, his clothes slightly worn, and in his hands, he held another pair of gloves.
Purple this time.
I froze.
He hadn’t noticed me yet. He was staring at the grave, shifting from foot to foot, his fingers gripping the gloves tightly.
I stepped forward, my boots crunching against the gravel. His head snapped up. His eyes widened. He turned to leave.
“Hey, wait!” I called, quickening my pace.
He hesitated but didn’t run.
“You’ve been leaving the gloves, haven’t you?” I asked gently. “What’s your name?”
His fingers twitched around the wool. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, finally, in a small, hesitant voice, he said, “Lucas.”
I looked at the gloves in his hands. Something about them seemed familiar.
I reached for them, my fingers brushing against the soft fabric.
The moment I touched them, I knew.
“They used to be mine,” I whispered.
Lucas nodded. “Yeah. Your dad gave them to me two years ago. It was really cold that winter, and I didn’t have any gloves. My hands were freezing.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. Even after I left, Dad was still looking out for others.
“He taught me how to knit,” Lucas continued. “He said it was important to know how to make things with your hands.”
Tears burned my eyes.
I had thought our last words were angry ones. That the silence between us was filled with resentment.
But I had been wrong.
Dad never stopped loving me.
Lucas pressed the gloves into my hands.
“He forgave you a long time ago,” he said. “He just hoped you had forgiven him too.”
I clutched the gloves to my chest, my tears spilling onto the fabric.
Maybe my father had always known—just as I now did.
Love was never about words.
It was in the things we left behind.
