My husband Jason has always been a devoted, hands-on dad, so when he started taking our seven-year-old daughter Lizzie into the garage for “private talks,” I tried not to worry. But the secrecy grew—locked doors, loud music, a covered window—and Lizzie repeated the same rehearsed line: “You’re not invited.”
My anxiety got the better of me. While Jason was out, I hid a small camera in the garage.
That night, I watched them lift a rug and open a hidden door in the floor. My heart stopped—until I saw what was really happening.
They were knitting.
Sweaters. Messy, uneven, handmade sweaters covered in yarn and laughter. One said, “I have the best mom in the world.” Another, “I have the best wife in the world.” They’d been secretly making me birthday gifts.
I kept watching for weeks, ashamed but relieved, until my birthday arrived and they proudly gave me the sweaters.
Later, I learned Jason had stopped knitting years ago after being mocked for it—but he wanted Lizzie to know no hobby was off-limits, and he wanted to make something soft and loving for me.
That night, I quietly removed the camera.
Weeks earlier, I’d expected to uncover something that would destroy my family.
Instead, I found proof—stitched in yarn—that I’m deeply, genuinely loved.