Some don’t grasp the worth of things that can’t be purchased or replaced. This was never about fabric. It was about heritage. Mourning. Devotion. It was about a mother pouring her final months into one last symbol of love.
I’m not sure Molly understands yet. Perhaps she will someday—maybe when she’s older, or when she’s a mother herself.
But I do know this: when you destroy something made with love, the loss isn’t measured only in money—it’s in trust, in memory, and in the fragments that can never be mended.
And sometimes, learning that truth hurts—but it’s a lesson that must be learned.
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