I stood alone in the cemetery, the wind biting at my skin as autumn leaves swirled around my feet. My father’s grave, marked with the familiar inscription, felt like the weight of the world every time I stood before it. It had been a month since he passed, and every visit felt like a wound that would never heal. A month of sleepless nights, endless regrets, and an emptiness that no amount of time seemed to fill.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath. The words were familiar, yet they never felt enough. I had said them countless times, but they seemed so hollow now. The three years we hadn’t spoken felt like a chasm between us. My father had been the most important person in my life, and yet, we had let pride and stubbornness keep us apart.
The cool air made me shiver as I crouched down, brushing the dried leaves from the base of his gravestone. That’s when I saw them—small, red knitted gloves, carefully placed on his grave. They were child-sized, soft to the touch, and handmade. My heart skipped a beat. Who would leave these here? I looked around, but the cemetery was eerily quiet, empty except for me and the quiet hum of my thoughts.
At first, I thought maybe they were left behind by mistake, or maybe they belonged to someone visiting a nearby grave. But as I sat there, my mind began to race. Who could have done this? And why?
I sat down on the damp grass, wrapping my arms around myself to keep warm. “Hey, Dad,” I murmured, my voice cracking with emotion. “I know… I know we didn’t end things well.” I paused, trying to steady my breath. “But I hope you knew that I still loved you.”
There was only silence, as always. No answer. No response. Just the distant sound of the wind through the trees.
“I wish we could’ve talked,” I continued, my voice trembling. “I wish I had just called you, Dad.” But time doesn’t turn back. And now, it was too late. The finality of that thought was like a punch to the gut.
I’d been raised by my father alone. My mother had died when I was a baby, and it was just him and me against the world. He had worked hard every day, his hands stained with grease from the repair shop where he worked, and he always made sure I had everything I needed. He was the strong one, the steady one, and for the longest time, I thought he was the wisest man I’d ever known.
Then I met Mark.
Mark was different. He made me laugh, he made me feel safe, and I felt like we had something real. But my father didn’t see it that way.
“He’s got no real job,” Dad had said one evening, his arms crossed tightly 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 shot back, my voice sharp. “I can take care of myself.”
Dad sighed, rubbing his temples as though the conversation was exhausting him. “Emily, you’re twenty. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I do!” I snapped. “I love him. And he loves me.”
My father’s face hardened. “Love doesn’t pay the bills.”
That was the first fight. And after that, things only got worse. I had just landed my first real job as a nurse at a local nursing home. I was excited and proud. But when I told my father, he looked at me as if I had ruined my life.
“A nurse? In a nursing home?” His voice was sharp, full of disapproval. “You’re throwing your life away.”
I felt my temper rise. “It’s the life I want,” I said, my fists clenched. “It’s my mistake to make.”
But to him, it wasn’t. And that night, I packed my bags and left. I thought he would call, that he’d realize he was wrong, that he’d try to fix things. But he never did. And neither did I.
Now, standing in front of his grave, I knew it was too late. But the guilt still weighed heavily on me. I had come here every week, trying to make up for all the things left unsaid, trying to fill the emptiness. I crouched down again, brushing away more leaves, when I saw another pair of gloves—this time, blue. Again, they were small, like the red ones. My heart skipped.
“Who’s leaving these?” I asked the grave softly, though I knew it would never answer.
I placed the blue gloves beside the red ones, feeling an odd sense of connection to whoever was leaving them. Maybe it was some kind of tradition, or maybe they were just a stranger with a kind heart. But that nagging feeling—like something was missing—refused to let go.
I continued my visits, talking to my father about my days, about Mark, and how much I missed him. Every week, there was a new pair of gloves—pink, green, yellow. Carefully placed, as though they had been waiting for me.
It became an obsession. I needed to know who was leaving them. So, one day, I arrived early, hoping to catch the person in the act. As I walked through the cemetery, my heart raced with anticipation. And that’s when I saw him—a teenage boy, standing in front of my father’s grave. He was thin, his clothes worn and faded, and in his hands, he held another pair of gloves—this time, purple.
I froze. He hadn’t noticed me yet. He stood there, staring at the grave, shifting from foot to foot, gripping the gloves like they meant something. I took a step closer, my boots crunching on the gravel. His eyes snapped up, and he looked ready to run.
“Hey, wait up!” I called out, my voice loud in the quiet cemetery. The boy froze, then hesitated, clutching the gloves tighter.
I softened my voice. “I just want to talk.”
He stood still, watching me warily. “What’s your name?” I asked.
“Lucas,” he replied quietly.
I glanced down at the gloves he was holding. They were unmistakably familiar—the wool, the tiny stitches. My stomach dropped. My heart pounded as I reached for them. The moment my fingers touched the fabric, memories flooded back. I had worn those gloves as a child. They had been mine.
“They used to be mine,” I whispered, my voice shaking.
Lucas looked at me, his eyes sad. “Your dad gave them to me,” he explained softly. “It was really cold that winter, and I didn’t have gloves. My hands were freezing.” He paused. “He taught me how to knit, too. Said it was important to know how to make things with your hands.”
I could hardly breathe. “He taught you?” I whispered, stunned.
Lucas nodded. “Yeah. I started making gloves, hats, scarves—things to sell to neighbors. It helps 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 up in my eyes as I clutched the gloves to my chest. “Lucas,” I said, wiping my face with the back of my hand, “can I buy them from you?”
He frowned, then smiled softly. “You don’t have to buy them,” he said, pressing the gloves into my hands. “They’re yours.”
I held the gloves tight against me, tears spilling down 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 collapsed to my knees, the weight of his words sinking in. “He talked about you all the time,” Lucas added. “He was proud of you.”
I sat there, the gloves still pressed to my chest, as the cemetery grew quieter. The sun began to set, casting golden light over everything. I traced the stitches with my fingers, realizing that my father’s love had never truly left me. And maybe, just maybe, he had always known that I never stopped loving him either.
