But one Christmas, when I was about 15, Grandma decided to shake things up. I unwrapped my gift, expecting the usual footwear, but instead, I found a small, slightly lumpy box. My curiosity peaked. Inside was a quilt. Not just any quilt - a handmade masterpiece, stitched together with pieces of fabric from clothes I’d long forgotten.

At first, I didn’t get it. “It’s... a blanket?” I asked, confused. Grandma just smiled.

Later that evening, she sat me down and explained. Each patch told a story: a square from the dress I wore to my first school recital, another from the shirt I spilled ice cream on during a family picnic. There was even a piece from my old superhero pajamas that I’d refused to stop wearing. “This way, you can always carry your memories with you,” she said.

I suddenly felt a lump in my throat. The quilt wasn’t just a gift; it was a time machine, stitched with love and a lifetime of moments I hadn’t even realized I cherished.

Years later, when I went to college, the quilt came with me. It was my comfort on homesick nights and my shield during Netflix binges. Even now, as an adult, it has a permanent place on my couch - frayed edges, faded colors, and all.

Looking back, it’s funny how the most unexpected gift can become the most meaningful. That Christmas, Grandma taught me that sometimes the best presents aren’t shiny or expensive. They’re the ones that remind you of who you are and where you come from.

And in case you’re wondering, yes, she still gave me socks that year too. Some traditions never die. 😊