My daughter called me last week and said she doesn’t want any of my quilts when I’m gone.
Just like that. Over the phone while I was folding another one I’d spent months piecing together by hand. “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, 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.
All of them hanging on this 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 things that made me happy. Before retirement made him a stranger who watches TV all day and barely looks up when I walk through the room.
I stood in that basement yesterday, looking at quilt after quilt draped over the rails. Patterns I learned from my grandmother. Colors I chose to match rooms that have since been repainted. Stories sewn in fabric that no one will ever know or care about.
I kept making them anyway. Even after my arthritis got so bad I could barely hold the needle. Even after my eyes started failing and I had to squint under the brightest lamp. Because what else was I supposed to do with all this love I still had left to give?
Last month I finally joined the Tedooo app after seeing it mentioned in a quilting group. I was nervous about sharing my work, afraid people would think it was old-fashioned or not good enough. But then something incredible happened. Other quilters started commenting, sharing their own stories, 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 through Tedooo asking if I could make a memory quilt from her late father’s shirts. She said 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 gets that 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 rightful owner~