Last week my daughter called and told me she doesn’t want any of my quilts when I’m gone.
Just like that. Over the phone. I was folding one I’d spent months piecing together by hand when she said, “Mom, I just don’t have room for all that stuff. Maybe donate them or something.”
Forty-three years of quilting. Forty-three years of staying up late after everyone went to bed, stitching love into every square and every seam. Baby quilts for grandchildren who live too far away to visit. Wedding quilts for nieces who never sent thank you cards. Comfort quilts made during every family crisis, every loss, every celebration.
They’re all hanging now on an old baby crib I turned into a quilt rack. My husband found the headboard and footboard at an estate sale fifteen years ago, back when he still noticed the little things that made me happy. Before retirement made him a stranger who barely looks up from the TV anymore.
Yesterday I stood in that basement looking at quilt after quilt draped over the rails. Patterns I learned from my grandmother. Colors chosen for rooms that have long since been repainted. Stories sewn into fabric that no one here will ever know or care about.
And yet I kept making them. Even after my arthritis made it painful to hold the needle. Even after my eyes grew weak and I needed the brightest lamp to see. Because what else could I do with all this love I still had left to give?
Last month I joined the Tedooo app after hearing about it in a quilting group. I was nervous to share my work, afraid people would think it was old-fashioned. But something amazing happened. Other quilters began commenting, sharing their own stories, even ordering custom pieces from my little shop there. Women who understood that every stitch carries a piece of your heart.
Yesterday a young mother messaged me asking if I could make a memory quilt from her late father’s shirts. She told me she’d been searching everywhere for someone who would treat his clothes with the care they deserved. When she saw my quilts, she knew I would understand.
So now I’m making a quilt for someone who will treasure it. Someone who will wrap themselves in it and remember. Someone who knows a quilt isn’t just fabric and thread.
Maybe my daughter will never want what I’ve made. But somewhere out there, other daughters do. And that’s enough to keep my hands busy and my heart full.
Credit to the original writer (respect 🫡)