I never thought I’d see my childhood sweater again—especially not in a laundromat, twenty years after my mother disappeared. But the moment I spotted the tiny embroidered letters on the collar, I knew the truth Grandma had told me was a lie. And I needed answers.
Life was too busy for me to dwell on the past. Between taking care of my three-year-old son, Liam, and looking after my aging grandmother, I barely had a moment to breathe.
“Ellie, did you take your vitamins today?” Grandma asked, peering at me over her glasses, her sharp gray eyes watching my every move.
“Yes, Grandma,” I lied, even though I hadn’t.
“Single mothers need to stay strong,” she reminded me, as if I didn’t already know.
She had raised me after my mother left. And even now, with a child of my own, she still treated me as if I were the one who needed raising.
“Bring me my tea, dear,” she called from her armchair.
“Grandma, you can get it yourself.”
She let out a dramatic sigh. “Is this how you talk to the woman who raised you?”
I loved her, I truly did. But sometimes, it was exhausting. That day, I just wanted a break. A moment of peace while doing something as simple as laundry.
After about half an hour, I loaded the washing machine at the laundromat, pressed the start button, and grabbed a cup of coffee from the vending machine. Routine.
As I waited, my eyes wandered to the lost-and-found basket. A pile of forgotten clothes, most likely left behind by busy parents or distracted students.
And then I saw it.
A small, blue sweater. The fabric was worn, stretched thin from years of use. Something inside me tugged—a strange, gut-deep pull. I stepped closer, reached down, and picked it up.
My hands trembled as I flipped the collar inside out.
There, stitched in delicate, nearly faded thread, was my name.
The laundromat around me blurred. My heart pounded in my ears.
This was impossible.
I ran my thumb over the tiny embroidered letters, my mind spinning with memories long buried.
I was five years old, curled up on the couch, wrapped in a warm blanket. My mother sat by the window, her fingers working a needle and thread through fabric.
“My little star,” she had whispered, smiling at me as she stitched, “I will always be here…”
But she wasn’t.
Life had been cruel to her. My father had died, leaving her alone with me. She struggled to find work, and the only person who offered us help was my grandmother.
Then one day, everything changed.
I remembered how she hugged me longer than usual. How she had smoothed my hair, kissed my forehead, and whispered:
“Be strong, my little star. You will be okay.”
And then she was gone.
Grandma told me she had abandoned me. That she didn’t care. That she had walked away without looking back. We moved to another state, far from where my mother could find us.
And now, twenty years later, I was standing in a laundromat, holding the one thing she had made for me.
I swallowed hard and looked around. My gaze landed on a thin, tired-looking woman sitting near the dryers. Two small children played at her feet.
I took a shaky breath and approached her.
“Excuse me… Is this your sweater?”
She looked at it, then at me, then back at the sweater.
“Yes. My daughter wears it.”
My fingers tightened around the fabric. “Where did you get it?”
She let out a slow sigh. “From a charity center near the old church. There was a woman there…”
My breath caught. “What woman?”
“A kind soul,” she murmured. “She always helped people in need. Sewed little embroideries on children’s clothes. Once, when I came in, she told me a story…”
My stomach twisted. “What story?”
The woman hesitated, then said softly, “She said she lost her daughter. That she searched for her for twenty years.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“She said after twenty years of searching, she finally gave up and donated the sweater to the shelter.”
“Do you remember her name?” I whispered.
“She never told me.”
“Can I…” My voice cracked. “Can I borrow this sweater? Just for a day.”
The woman studied me for a long moment, then nodded.
“Of course.”
I had no idea what I was going to do next. But I knew where I needed to start. I needed to talk to my grandmother.
When I got home, Grandma was exactly where I had left her that morning—sitting in her armchair, a cup of tea beside her, a newspaper spread open in her lap.
I stood there for a moment, gripping the sweater in my hands, my heart hammering. Then, without a word, I placed it on the table in front of her.
She didn’t even look up.
“Just a coincidence,” she muttered, turning a page as if I had dropped a grocery receipt instead of a piece of my childhood.
“This is not a coincidence, Grandma. Why did you lie to me?”
Her eyes finally lifted, sharp and unreadable. “Lied? What nonsense are you talking about now?”
“You told me Mom abandoned me. But I just met a woman who got this sweater from a charity—where Mom gave it away. After searching for me. For twenty years.”
“She left us, Ellie. That is the truth.”
“No.” My voice shook. “You took me away. You hid me from her.”
Grandma’s hands trembled slightly as she placed the teacup back down. “I did what I had to do.”
“I’m going to find her. Whether you like it or not.”
Grandma sighed dramatically, shaking her head as if I were a child throwing a tantrum.
“Do what you want,” she said, waving a hand. “But if you leave to find her, don’t come back.”
I stared at her, my whole body numb.
For years, I had tried to be the perfect granddaughter. I had taken care of her, listened to her, believed every word she said. But finally, she showed her real face.
I didn’t know where to start. But I knew one thing—I was going to fight for my mother.
The next morning, I packed my bag, sweater in hand, ready to leave. I reached for my car keys. They weren’t there.
I checked my bag. My wallet was missing too.
Then I heard her voice behind me.
“You don’t need to go, Ellie.”
I turned. Grandma stood in the doorway, completely calm.
“Where are my keys?”
She tilted her head. “If you leave, you leave alone. Your son stays with me.”
I felt the ground shift beneath me.
She was trying to stop me. Again.
But this time, I wouldn’t let her.
And so, with my son in my arms and the sweater clutched tightly in my hand, I set out to find the woman I had lost.
I didn’t know what would happen. I didn’t know if she would recognize me, if she would want to see me.
But I had to try.
Because for the first time in my life, I wasn’t chasing a ghost.
I was chasing the truth.
