For weeks, I visited my father’s grave and found tiny knitted gloves left behind—blue, pink, green, yellow. Each one deepened the mystery. Then one evening, I saw a teenage boy standing there, holding a purple pair.

“Hey, wait!” I called.

He hesitated. “I’m Lucas.”

The gloves looked familiar. When I touched them, memories flooded back—I’d worn them as a child.

“My dad gave them to me,” Lucas said. “Two winters ago. I didn’t have gloves, and he noticed. After that, he taught me to knit. Said hands should know how to make things.”

Tears welled up. Even after we’d stopped speaking, Dad was still helping others.

Lucas continued, “He never stopped talking about you. Said he was proud. I wanted to leave something behind for him.”

I asked to buy the gloves. He shook his head. “They’re yours.”

I clutched them to my chest, the final thread connecting me to a man I thought I’d lost. I sat by his grave, the gloves in my hands, tracing every stitch he once made.

I used to believe our silence meant anger. But those gloves? They spoke of love, forgiveness, and a father who never stopped caring—even in the end.

Maybe I never stopped loving him, either.