Over the next two weeks, I watched every “garage time.”
More sweaters appeared.
A green one for Lizzie.
A gray one for Jason.
And another, adult-sized, still on the needles.
The words read:
“I have the best wife in the world.”
I was the one sneaking. Watching. Lying.
Then my birthday came.
Lizzie jumped onto the bed, yelling, “Happy birthday!”
Jason followed with pancakes and coffee.
They brought out a big box.
Inside were the sweaters.
Uneven. Crooked. Perfect.
One read:
“I am the best mom and wife.”
“We knew you’d never say it about yourself,” Jason said. “So we did.”
I cried. Hard.
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