My mom knitted swatches during chemo. Small, uneven squares of yarn in every color she could find. She said they helped her hands stay busy when her mind wanted to wander to darker places. After she died, I saved them all. They weren’t perfect, but they were hers soft, fragile reminders that even in pain, she created something with love.

Years passed. Life moved forward. But every time I touched those swatches, I felt close to her again. When I found out I was pregnant, I held them against my belly and whispered, “These are from Grandma. One day, they’ll be yours too.” I planned to sew them into a baby blanket, a gift that would carry her memory into the next generation.

Then, one afternoon, I went to pull them out and… they were gone. I searched everywhere closets, boxes, drawers, under the bed. Hours passed, and I was still on the floor, shaking and crying. It felt like losing her all over again, like the last pieces of her had slipped through my fingers. That’s when my stepmom walked in. We’d never been especially close, and part of me braced for her to tell me I was overreacting.

Instead, she sat quietly beside me and said, “I’m sorry, but I took them.” My heart broke in that instant. I wanted to scream until she continued softly, “I had them made into a quilt. For your baby shower. I wanted it to be a surprise.” In that moment, I realized the swatches weren’t lost at all. They had simply been transformed just like my grief, my family, and soon, my life as a mother.