Every Week, I Found Children's Gloves on My Father's Grave – One Day, I Met a Teenager There

For weeks, I visited my father's grave, only to find small knitted gloves left behind, each one deepening the mystery. But the day I saw a teenage boy standing there, clutching another pair, I knew I had to uncover the truth.

I stood in front of my father's grave, my arms wrapped around myself to fight the cold. The autumn wind whipped through the cemetery, rustling the dried leaves around my feet. I stared at the headstone, my eyes tracing the familiar letters.

A month. It had been a month since he passed. A month of sleepless nights, of staring at my phone, wishing I could call him—only to remember that I never would again.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

My voice felt small, like a child's.

I had said those words a dozen times before, every time I came here, but they never felt like enough.

Three years. That's how long we hadn't spoken. Three years of silence, of pride, of waiting for the other to make the first move.

I crouched down, brushing fallen leaves away from the base of the stone. That's when I saw a small pair of red knitted gloves sitting neatly on his grave.

I frowned.

They were tiny, like they belonged to a child. I picked them up, turning them over in my hands. The wool was soft, handmade.

Who would leave these here?

I glanced around, but the cemetery was empty.

Maybe someone left them by mistake. Or maybe they belonged to someone visiting another grave.

I sat down on the damp ground, crossing my legs.

"Hey, Dad." My voice cracked, but I kept going. "I know… I know we didn't end things on good terms." I let out a shaky breath. "But I hope you knew I still loved you."

Silence.

"I wish we could've talked," I whispered. "I wish I had just picked up the phone."

But time didn't go backward.

And now I would never hear his voice again.

My father raised me alone. I never knew my mother, she died when I was a baby.

He worked hard, spending long days under cars in the repair shop, grease under his nails, sweat on his brow. He never complained or missed a bill, and always made sure I had what I needed.

"Emily," he would say, "you've got to be strong. Life doesn't go easy on anyone."

And for a long time, I thought he was the wisest man in the world.

Then I met Mark.

Mark made me laugh. He made me feel safe. And he loved me in a way that made me sure I wanted to spend my life with him.

But Dad didn't approve.

"He's got no real job," he had said, arms crossed as he stood in the kitchen. "How's he supposed to take care of you?"

"I don't need him to take care of me," I snapped. "I can take care of myself."

Dad sighed, rubbing his temples. "You're twenty, Emily. You don't know what you're doing."

"I do!" My voice had been louder than I intended. "I love him! And he loves me!"

His face hardened. "Love doesn't pay the bills."

That was the first fight.

The second was worse.

I had just gotten my first real nursing job at a nursing home. I was excited, proud. But when I told Dad, he looked at me like I had thrown my future away.

"A nurse? In a nursing home?" His voice was sharp, disapproving.

"Yes, Dad. That's what I went to school for."

He shook his head, pacing the kitchen. "You'll spend your days watching people die, Emily. That's not the life I wanted for you."

I clenched my fists. "It's the life I want."

"It's a mistake."

"It's my mistake to make."

His jaw tightened. "You're throwing your life away."

That was the night I packed my bags and walked out.

I thought he'd call. I thought, after a few weeks, maybe he'd realize he had been wrong. That he would reach out.

But he never did.

And neither did I.

And now… it was too late.

A week after my first visit, I returned to my father's grave. The guilt hadn't faded, but the weight of it felt easier to carry when I sat beside him, talking like I used to.

I knelt in front of the headstone, brushing off a few fallen leaves. That's when I saw a pair of knitted mittens. This time, they were blue.

I picked them up, turning them over in my hands. They were small, just like the red ones. My chest tightened.

"Dad," I murmured, looking at the grave. "Who's leaving these?"

Of course, there was no answer.

I placed the mittens beside the red pair from last time, resting them on the grass. Maybe it was a relative I didn't know. Maybe it was some kind of tradition I wasn't aware of.

The thought nagged at me, but I let it go.

I had come here to talk to my father, so I did.

I told him about my days at work, about Mark, about how much I missed him. The words poured out of me, as if saying them aloud could undo the years of silence.

The following week, I came back and found another pair of gloves. Pink this time. The week after that, there was a green pair. Then yellow.

Each time, the gloves were neatly placed, as if someone had carefully arranged them just for him.

It became an obsession. The next week, I arrived earlier than usual, long before the sun dipped behind the trees.

As I walked through the cemetery, my heart pounded. Part of me wondered if I would find another pair of gloves.

But instead, I found a boy.

He looked about 13, standing in front of my father's grave. He was thin, his clothes slightly worn, and in his small hands, he held another pair of gloves.

This time, they were purple. I froze.

He hadn't noticed me yet. He stared at the grave, shifting from foot to foot, his fingers gripping the gloves like they meant something.

I took a step closer, my boots crunching against the gravel. His head snapped up. His eyes widened. He turned to leave.

"Hey, wait up!" I called, quickening my pace.

He hesitated, then clutched the gloves tighter. I could see the indecision on his face and I softened my voice. "I just want to talk."

The boy stood still, looking at me with cautious eyes.

I stopped a few feet away, not wanting to scare him off.

"You've been leaving the gloves, haven't you? What's your name?" I asked.

His fingers twitched around the wool. For a moment, he didn't answer. Then, finally, in a small, hesitant voice, he said, "Lucas."

I took a slow breath, glancing at the pair he held. They looked oddly familiar—the purple wool, the tiny stitches. My stomach dropped.

I reached for the gloves with trembling hands. The moment my fingers touched the soft fabric, a wave of memories crashed over me. I had worn them as a child, years ago.

"They used to be mine," I whispered.

"Yeah," he said. "Your dad gave them to me two years ago. It was really cold that winter, and I didn't have any gloves. My hands were freezing."

I swallowed hard. Even after everything, even after I had left, Dad was still looking out for others.

Lucas continued, his voice soft. "After that, he started spending time with me. He taught me how to knit. He said it was important to know how to make things with your hands."

I blinked back tears. "He taught you?"

Tears welled in my eyes.

I took a shaky breath. "Lucas," I said, wiping my face. "Would you let me buy these from you?"

He frowned. "Why?"

"Because," I said, my voice breaking, "they were mine once. And they were his after that. I just… I need them back."

Lucas smiled a little, shaking his head.

"You don't have to buy them," he said. "They're yours." He pressed the gloves into my hands.

I clutched them to my chest, tears spilling onto my cheeks.

"He loved you," Lucas said gently. "He forgave you a long time ago. He just… he hoped you had forgiven him too."

I let out a sob.

"He talked about you all the time," Lucas added. "He was proud of you."

My legs felt weak.

I sank to the ground, holding the gloves like they were the last piece of my father I had left. And in a way, they were. I sat by my father's grave long after Lucas left.

The cemetery grew quieter as the sun dipped lower in the sky, painting everything in shades of orange and gold.

I turned the gloves over in my hands, tracing the tiny stitches. His stitches.

All this time, I had thought our last words to each other were angry ones. I had thought the silence between us was filled with resentment.

But I had been wrong. Dad never stopped loving me.

And maybe… maybe he had always known that I never stopped loving him either.

Liked this story? Consider checking out this one: Every Sunday, I visited my husband's grave to feel close to him, until I found raw eggs smashed against his gravestone. At first, I thought it was a cruel prank, but when I caught the culprit in the act, I was shattered to discover it was someone I trusted more than anyone else.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.