For weeks, I had been visiting my father’s grave, feeling a sense of grief I couldn’t put into words. But each time I arrived, there was always something strange waiting for me—a small pair of knitted gloves. The mystery of it all weighed on me, making me question everything I thought I knew about my father, about myself. And then, one day, I saw him.
A teenage boy, standing in front of my father’s grave, clutching yet another pair of gloves. That was when I knew I had to find out the truth.
It was a cold autumn afternoon. I stood at my father’s grave, the chill in the air biting at my skin. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to keep warm, as the wind howled through the cemetery, stirring up the dry leaves that littered the ground. I couldn’t believe it had been a whole month since he passed.
A month of endless sleepless nights, where I lay awake, staring at my phone, wishing I could call him again. But then the truth would hit me—I’d never be able to call him again.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice soft and small. It felt like those words weren’t enough, no matter how many times I said them.
I’d visited his grave so many times over the past few weeks. Each time, I apologized for the things I never got to say, for the silence between us that had lasted too long. Three years, to be exact. Three years of stubborn pride. Three years of not speaking to each other after a fight that had felt impossible to mend.
I crouched down and brushed some leaves off the base of the headstone. That’s when I noticed them. A pair of small, red knitted gloves, neatly placed on his grave.
I frowned. They were tiny—too tiny to belong to anyone but a child. I picked them up, feeling the soft wool between my fingers. Who would leave these here?
I looked around the cemetery, but it was empty. No one was in sight. Maybe they were left by mistake, I thought. Or maybe they belonged to someone else visiting a different grave.
I sat down on the damp ground, crossing my legs. “Hey, Dad,” I said quietly, my voice cracking. “I know we didn’t end things on the best note.” I let out a shaky breath. “But I hope you knew I still loved you.”
The words hung in the air, unanswered, as they always had been.
“I wish we could’ve talked,” I continued, staring at the grave. “I wish I had just picked up the phone.”
But time doesn’t go backward. I had never been able to go back and fix things. My father had raised me on his own. I never knew my mother—she passed away when I was just a baby. Dad worked hard.
He spent long hours at the repair shop, fixing cars and doing whatever it took to make sure we were okay. He always had grease on his hands and sweat on his brow. But he never complained. He always made sure I had what I needed, even when things were tough.
“Emily,” he would say, “you’ve got to be strong. Life doesn’t go easy on anyone.”
For a long time, I believed that. I thought he was the wisest man in the world.
Then I met Mark.
Mark was different. He made me laugh, made me feel safe. And he loved me. He loved me in a way that made me feel like he was the one I was meant to spend my life with.
But Dad didn’t like him.
“He’s got no real job,” Dad had said, crossing his arms in frustration. “How’s he supposed to take care of you?”
“I don’t need him to take care of me,” I snapped back. “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 been louder than I intended. “I love him! And he loves me!”
Dad’s face hardened. “Love doesn’t pay the bills.”
That was the first big fight.
The second one was worse. I had just landed my first real nursing job at a nursing home. I was excited, proud. But when I told Dad, he looked at me as though I had made the biggest mistake of my life.
“A nurse? In a nursing home?” His voice was sharp and disapproving.
“Yes, Dad. That’s what I went to school for,” I said, trying to defend myself.
He shook his head, pacing around 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,” I said firmly.
His jaw tightened. “You’re throwing your life away.”
And that was the night I packed my bags and left.
I thought he’d call. I thought that after a few weeks, he’d realize he had been wrong, that he would reach out to me. But he didn’t. And I didn’t either.
And now, it was too late.
I returned to my father’s grave the following week, the guilt still heavy in my chest. But something had changed. The weight of it didn’t feel as crushing anymore when I sat beside him, talking to him like I used to. I knelt down again, brushing off a few fallen leaves, and that’s when I saw them.
A pair of blue knitted mittens. They were small, just like the red gloves from last week. My heart tightened as I picked them up, turning them over in my hands.
“Dad,” I whispered, looking down at the grave. “Who’s leaving these?”
But there was no answer, of course.
I placed the mittens beside the red gloves from the week before, resting them on the grass. Maybe it was a relative I didn’t know. Or maybe it was some kind of tradition I didn’t understand. I wasn’t sure, but the thought lingered in my mind as I continued talking to him.
Each week, I found more gloves. Pink, green, yellow. Each pair neatly placed, as if someone had carefully arranged them just for him.
The mystery began to consume me. I arrived at the cemetery one day, earlier than usual, my heart pounding with anticipation. Would I find another pair of gloves? Or maybe this time, I’d uncover the person responsible?
Instead, I found a boy.
He couldn’t have been more than thirteen, standing at my father’s grave with a pair of purple gloves in his hands. He was thin, his clothes worn, and his eyes were glued to the grave. My heart skipped a beat.
I froze, watching him as he stood there, shifting from foot to foot, gripping the gloves as if they meant everything to him.
I took a step closer, the gravel crunching under my boots. His head snapped up. His eyes widened when he saw me. Then he turned to leave.
“Hey, wait up!” I called, quickening my pace.
He hesitated, his fingers tightening around the gloves, and I softened my voice. “I just want to talk.”
The boy stopped, still clutching the gloves. His eyes were cautious, unsure. I stopped a few feet away, not wanting to scare him off.
“You’ve been leaving the gloves, haven’t you?” I asked, my voice gentle. “What’s your name?”
His fingers twitched around the wool, and he finally spoke in a small, hesitant voice. “Lucas.”
My heart tightened as I glanced at the purple gloves in his hands. They looked oddly familiar—the soft wool, the tiny stitches. I reached for them with trembling hands. The moment my fingers touched the fabric, I was flooded with memories. I had worn those gloves as a child, years ago.
“They used to be mine,” I whispered.
Lucas nodded, his voice barely audible. “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 hard, the weight of the revelation sinking in. Even after everything, even after I had left, Dad had still been there 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.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. “He taught you?”
“Yeah,” Lucas replied, nodding. “I started making gloves, scarves, hats… little things to sell to the neighbors. It’s how I help my family.”
I wiped my eyes, struggling to hold it together. “I need to buy these gloves from you,” I said, my voice trembling. “They were mine once. And they were his after that. I just… I need them back.”
Lucas smiled softly, shaking his head. “You don’t have to buy them. They’re yours.”
He pressed the gloves into my hands. I clutched them to my chest, the tears falling freely now.
“He loved you,” Lucas said gently. “He forgave you a long time ago. He just… he hoped you’d forgiven him too.”
I let out a sob, my heart breaking.
“He talked about you all the time,” Lucas added, his voice soft. “He was proud of you.”
I couldn’t stand anymore. My legs gave out, and I sank to the ground, holding the gloves like they were the last piece of my father I had left. In a way, they were.
The cemetery grew quieter as the sun set, painting everything in soft hues of orange and gold. I sat there, holding the gloves, tracing the tiny stitches. His stitches.
I had always thought our last words to each other had been angry ones, filled with resentment. But now I knew the truth. Dad never stopped loving me.
And maybe… maybe he had always known that I never stopped loving him either.
