He didn’t laugh the same anymore. Didn’t ask for toys. Didn’t get excited about things like other kids.
But he held onto one thing.
Her sweaters.
Soft, hand-knit, still faintly carrying her scent.
Then my son remarried.
His new wife, Rebecca, made it clear those sweaters didn’t belong in her house.
My son kept defending her.
“She just needs time.”
“She’s not used to kids.”
“Let’s be patient.”
So I stayed quiet.
Until Easter.
One afternoon, Noah came to me holding a small, uneven bunny.
“I made this for kids in the hospital,” he said. “So they don’t feel alone.”
My chest tightened.
“Why a bunny?” I asked.
He gave a small smile.
“Mom used to call me her little bunny.”
That was all I needed to hear.
After that, he spent hours knitting.
Tiny bunnies. Crooked ears, mismatched buttons for eyes.
Each one made from his mother’s sweaters.
One hundred little pieces of love.
Each with a handwritten note:
“You are brave.”
“You’re not alone.”
“Keep fighting.”
For the first time in years… Noah looked proud.
Then Rebecca walked in.
She stared at the boxes.
“What is all this?”
“Noah made them for sick kids at the hospital,” I said.
She picked one up, frowned—and laughed.
“This? This is garbage.”