I never thought I would find my childhood sweater in a laundromat—especially not twenty years after my mother disappeared. But the moment I saw the familiar embroidery, I knew. The story Grandma had told me was a lie. And I needed answers.
Life never gave me much time to think about the past. Between taking care of my three-year-old son, Liam, and looking after my grandmother, I barely had a moment to breathe.
“Ellie, did you take your vitamins today?” Grandma asked, peering at me over the rim of her glasses.
“Yes, Grandma,” I said, even though I hadn’t.
“Single mothers need to stay strong,” she reminded me, as if I hadn’t already figured that out on my own.
She had raised me after my mother “abandoned” me—or at least, that was the story she had always told. And even though I now had a child of my own, she still acted like I was the one who needed parenting.
“Bring me my tea, dear,” she’d call from her chair.
“Grandma, you can get it yourself.”
A dramatic sigh.
“Is this how you talk to the woman who raised you?”
I loved her, I really did. But sometimes, it was exhausting. That day, all I wanted was a break—a simple, quiet moment while doing laundry.
Half an hour later, I stood at the laundromat, stuffing clothes into the washing machine. I pressed the start button, then grabbed a cup of coffee from the vending machine. Just another routine task.
As I waited, I wandered over to a basket filled with lost clothes. That’s when I saw it—a small, blue sweater. The fabric was worn, stretched thin from years of use. My fingers twitched as I reached for it, an odd feeling stirring in my chest.
I flipped the collar inside out.
There, stitched in delicate, faded thread, was my name.
Ellie.
The laundromat blurred around me. My heartbeat pounded in my ears.
Impossible. My breath caught as my fingers traced the tiny embroidered letters. And then, the memories crashed into me.
I was five years old, curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. My mother sat by the window, needle and thread in hand, carefully stitching my name into the soft fabric.
“My little star, I will always be here…”
But she wasn’t.
After my father died, my mother had struggled. She had no job, no money, and no help—except for Grandma.
Then one day, she was gone.
I remembered the way she hugged me that last night, how she smoothed my hair, her voice whispering into my ear:
“Be strong, my little star. You will be okay.”
And then… nothing. Grandma said she had left us. That she didn’t care. We moved away. Started over.
But now, standing in a laundromat twenty years later, I was holding proof that she hadn’t just abandoned me. She had made this for me. And somehow, it had found its way back into my hands.
I swallowed hard and looked around. Near the dryers, a thin woman sat in an old coat, two small children playing at her feet.
I hesitated, then walked toward her.
“Excuse me… Is this your sweater?”
The woman looked up, then at the sweater, then back at me. Her tired eyes flickered with recognition.
“Yes. My daughter wears it.”
“Where did you get it?”
She sighed. “From a charity center near the old church. There was a woman there…”
My breath caught.
“What woman?”
“A kind soul,” she murmured. “She helped people in need. She used to sew little embroideries into children’s clothes. Once, when I was there, she told me a story…”
I gripped the sweater tightly. “What story?”
“She said she lost her daughter.” The woman looked at me more closely now. “She said she had searched for her for twenty years.”
My heart stopped.
“Do you remember her name?”
“She never told me.”
I forced a breath, my voice unsteady. “Can I… Can I borrow this sweater? Just for a day?”
The woman studied me, then nodded. “Of course.”
I had no idea what I was going to do next. But I knew where I had to start.
I needed to talk to Grandma.
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 open on her lap.
I stood there for a moment, gripping the soft blue sweater in my hands, my heart hammering against my ribs. 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, flipping a page as if I had just placed a grocery receipt in front of her instead of a piece of my childhood.
“This is not a coincidence, Grandma. Why did you lie to me?”
She finally looked at me, her sharp gray eyes locking onto mine.
“Lied? What nonsense are you talking about now?”
I took a step closer. “You told me Mom abandoned me. But I just met a woman who got this sweater from a charity. The same place Mom donated it after searching for me. For twenty years.”
“She left us, Ellie. That is the truth.”
“No,” I said firmly, my voice shaking with emotion. “You took me away from her. You hid me.”
For a moment, her hands trembled slightly as she placed the teacup down. Then, with a dramatic sigh, she shook her head.
“Do what you want. But if you leave to find her, don’t come back.”
Her words hit me like a slap.
For years, I had done everything for her. But now, I saw her real face.
I didn’t care what she said. I was going to find my mother.
The next morning, I packed a bag, sweater in hand. But when I reached for my car keys, they weren’t there. My wallet was missing too.
“You don’t need to go, Ellie,” Grandma said from behind me.
I turned slowly. “Where are my keys?”
She folded her hands. “You have a child to think about. Do you really want to drag him into this nonsense?”
“Give them back.”
“If you leave, Lucas stays with me.”
I froze. “What?”
“You heard me. You’re running after a woman who left you once. She’ll do it again. And when she does, you’ll come crawling back. But I won’t let you walk through that door again.”
Tears burned my eyes, but I forced myself to stay calm.
“Fine. I’ll stay.”
She thought she had won.
She hadn’t.
Later that day, I took Lucas to the playground. Or at least, that’s what I told Grandma. In reality, I had a plan.
We were going to find my mother.
And nothing—nothing—was going to stop me.
