The Mystery of the Knitted Gloves
It had been a month since my father passed away, and I still couldn’t believe he was gone. Every week, I visited his grave, hoping to find some kind of peace. But instead, I found something strange—something that would change everything I thought I knew about my dad.
The first time it happened, I was standing in front of his headstone, shivering in the cold autumn wind. I crouched down to brush away some fallen leaves, and that’s when I saw them: a tiny pair of red knitted gloves, neatly placed on his grave.
I picked them up, turning them over in my hands. They were soft, handmade, and small enough to fit a child. I glanced around the cemetery, but it was empty. Who would leave these here?
I sat down on the damp ground, clutching the gloves. “Hey, Dad,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “I know we didn’t end things on good terms. But I hope you knew I still loved you.”
The silence that followed was heavy, and I felt the weight of all the things I wished I’d said.
My father had raised me alone after my mother died when I was a baby. He worked long hours at a repair shop, his hands always stained with grease, but he never complained. He made sure I had everything I needed, even if it meant sacrificing his own comfort.
“Emily,” he used to say, “you’ve got to be strong. Life doesn’t go easy on anyone.”
For a long time, I thought he was the wisest man in the world. But then I met Mark, and everything changed.
Mark made me laugh. He made me feel safe. And he loved me in a way that made me sure I wanted to spend my life with him. But my dad didn’t approve.
“He’s got no real job,” Dad had said, his arms crossed as he stood 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!” I shouted. “I love him! And he loves me!”
His face hardened. “Love doesn’t pay the bills.”
That was the first fight.
The second was worse. I had just gotten my first real nursing job at a nursing home. I was excited, proud. But when I told Dad, he looked at me like I had thrown my future away.
“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, pacing the kitchen. “You’ll spend your days watching people die, Emily. That’s not the life I wanted for you.”
I clenched my fists. “It’s the life I want.”
“It’s a mistake.”
“It’s my mistake to make.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re throwing your life away.”
That was the night I packed my bags and walked out. I thought he’d call. I thought, after a few weeks, maybe he’d realize he had been wrong. That he would reach out.
But he never did.
And neither did I.
And now… it was too late.
A week after my first visit, I returned to my father’s grave. The guilt hadn’t faded, but the weight of it felt easier to carry when I sat beside him, talking like I used to.
That’s when I saw another pair of gloves. This time, they were blue.
I picked them up, turning them over in my hands. They were small, just like the red ones. My chest tightened.
“Dad,” I murmured, looking at the grave. “Who’s leaving these?”
Of course, there was no answer.
I placed the mittens beside the red pair from last time, resting them on the grass. Maybe it was a relative I didn’t know. Maybe it was some kind of tradition I wasn’t aware of. The thought nagged at me, but I let it go.
The following week, I came back and found another pair of gloves. Pink this time. The week after that, there was a green pair. Then yellow.
Each time, the gloves were neatly placed, as if someone had carefully arranged them just for him.
It became an obsession. The next week, I arrived earlier than usual, long before the sun dipped behind the trees. As I walked through the cemetery, my heart pounded. Part of me wondered if I would find another pair of gloves.
But instead, I found a boy.
He looked about 13, standing in front of my father’s grave. He was thin, his clothes slightly worn, and in his small hands, he held another pair of gloves. This time, they were purple.
I froze.
He hadn’t noticed me yet. He stared at the grave, shifting from foot to foot, his fingers gripping the gloves like they meant something.
I took a step closer, my boots crunching against the gravel. His head snapped up. His eyes widened. He turned to leave.
“Hey, wait up!” I called, quickening my pace.
He hesitated, then clutched the gloves tighter. I could see the indecision on his face, and I softened my voice. “I just want to talk.”
The boy stood still, looking at me with cautious eyes.
I stopped a few feet away, not wanting to scare him off. “You’ve been leaving the gloves, haven’t you? What’s your name?” I asked.
His fingers twitched around the wool. For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then, finally, in a small, hesitant voice, he said, “Lucas.”
I took a slow breath, glancing at the pair he held. They looked oddly familiar—the purple wool, the tiny stitches. My stomach dropped. I reached for the gloves with trembling hands. The moment my fingers touched the soft fabric, a wave of memories crashed over me. I had worn them as a child, years ago.
“They used to be mine,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” he said. “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 hard. Even after everything, even after I had left, Dad was still looking out for others.
Lucas continued, his voice soft. “After that, he started spending time with me. He taught me how to knit. He said it was important to know how to make things with your hands.”
I blinked back tears. “He taught you?”
Lucas nodded. “Yeah. I started making gloves, scarves, hats, and other little things to sell to neighbors. That’s how I help my family.” He looked down, then back at me. “I wanted to leave them here for him. I thought… maybe it would make him happy.”
Tears welled in my eyes.
I took a shaky breath. “Lucas,” I said, wiping my face. “Would you let me buy these from you?”
He frowned. “Why?”
“Because,” I said, my voice breaking, “they were mine once. And they were his after that. I just… I need them back.”
Lucas smiled a little, shaking his head.
“You don’t have to buy them,” he said. “They’re yours.” He pressed the gloves into my hands.
I clutched them to my chest, tears spilling onto my cheeks.
“He loved you,” Lucas said gently. “He forgave you a long time ago. He just… he hoped you had forgiven him too.”
I let out a sob.
“He talked about you all the time,” Lucas added. “He was proud of you.”
My legs felt weak.
I sank to the ground, holding the gloves like they were the last piece of my father I had left. And in a way, they were.
I sat by my father’s grave long after Lucas left. The cemetery grew quieter as the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting everything in shades of orange and gold.
I turned the gloves over in my hands, tracing the tiny stitches. His stitches.
All this time, I had thought our last words to each other were angry ones. I had thought the silence between us was filled with resentment.
But I had been wrong.
Dad never stopped loving me.
And maybe… maybe he had always known that I never stopped loving him either.
