Ever since I was 7, my grandma gave me the same gift every birthday—a small plastic sheep in a little box. I always assumed she just forgot she’d given me one before, maybe due to memory issues, so I acted surprised each year to avoid hurting her feelings. I collected them on a shelf but never thought much about it.

On my 18th birthday, after receiving yet another sheep, my older brother pulled me aside, looking unusually serious. He took the sheep from my hand, flipped it over, and pointed to a tiny number engraved on the bottom. Curious, we checked the others—each one had a different date etched underneath.

That’s when I realized the truth: every date marked a meaningful moment in my life. One was the day I won a school competition, another the day I broke my arm and Grandma stayed up all night comforting me, another when I cried after singing on stage, and one on the day my parents fought and I hid in her lap, needing her more than ever.

She hadn’t given me a random toy every year—she had been quietly preserving my milestones, recording the moments she was proud of me or when I needed love most. I went back to her with tears in my eyes and whispered, “Thank you for remembering my life even when I didn’t.”