I live off my pension and struggle most months, counting coins like they’re secrets I’m afraid to tell out loud. For special occasions, I make gifts for my grandkids—small sweaters, bright scarves, a lopsided dinosaur with button eyes—each stitch a quiet promise that love doesn’t run out when money does. Last week, my DIL called and told me, “If you’re even thinking about bringing crocheted gifts, don’t bother coming. My kids deserve more!” Her words sat heavy in my chest long after the call ended. I stared at the half-finished blanket on my lap, the yarn soft from being handled so often, and wondered when “handmade” became a synonym for “not enough.” I thought about the birthdays I’d missed because the bus fare was too much, the holidays where my hands shook from cold and worry, and the pride I’d always taken in giving what I could, even when it wasn’t flashy.

So I decided to finish every gift anyway. I stitched their names into the corners, tucked notes into pockets, and wrapped each piece with care. Then I packed a small box—not to take to the party, but to keep for myself. When the day came, I didn’t go. Instead, I mailed the box to a local shelter, where a volunteer told me later that a child slept warmer because of my hands. I learned something that day: love isn’t measured by price tags or approval, but by where it lands. I still make things for my grandkids, and I’ll give them when the time is right. Until then, I give my work to those who see its worth—and I keep my dignity, stitch by stitch.