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

I stood in front of my father’s grave, arms wrapped tightly around myself to shield against the cold.

One month. It had been one month since he passed away. One month of sleepless nights.

I crouched down and brushed away the dry leaves at the base of the tombstone. That’s when I saw them — a small pair of red knitted gloves lying neatly on the stone.

They were tiny, as if they belonged to a child. The wool was soft and handmade.

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

“Hey, Dad,” I whispered, my voice cracking, but I kept talking. “I know… I know we didn’t part on good terms.” I exhaled shakily. “But I hope you knew I still loved you.”

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

He worked hard every day, spending hours under cars at the repair shop, his hands covered in grease and his forehead dripping with sweat. He never complained, never missed a bill, and always made sure I had what I needed.

For the longest time, I believed he was the wisest man in the world.

Then I met Mark.

Mark made me laugh. He made me feel safe. He loved me in a way that made me want to spend my whole life with him.

But my father didn’t approve.

That was our first real fight.

The second was worse.

I had just started my first full-time job as a nurse at a care home. I was proud and excited. But when I told Dad, he looked at me like I had just thrown my future away.

His jaw tightened. “You’re wasting your life.”

That night, I packed my things and walked out.

I thought he’d call. I hoped that after a few weeks, he’d realize he was wrong — that he’d reach out.

But he never did.

And neither did I.

Now it was too late.

A week after my first visit, I returned to his grave.

That’s when I found another pair of gloves — this time, they were blue. I gently placed them next to the red ones on the grass. Maybe they were left by a relative I didn’t know. Maybe it was some tradition I wasn’t aware of.

The next week, there was a pink pair. Then green. Then yellow.

It became an obsession.

One week, I went earlier than usual — long before the sun dipped behind the trees — hoping to catch whoever was leaving them.

That’s when I saw him.

A boy stood quietly at my father’s grave. He looked to be around thirteen years old — thin, wearing slightly worn clothes, and holding another pair of gloves in his hands.

Purple ones this time.

I froze.

I stepped forward, my boots crunching softly on the gravel. His head shot up, and he turned to walk away.

“Hey! Wait!” I called, hurrying toward him.

I stopped a few steps away so I wouldn’t scare him.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then he whispered, barely audible, “Lucas.”

My hands trembled as I reached for the gloves. The moment my fingers touched the fabric, memories flooded my mind. I had worn these gloves as a child, years ago.

“Your dad gave them to me two years ago,” Lucas said quietly. “It was really cold that winter, and I didn’t have any gloves. My hands were freezing.”

Tears filled my eyes.

“Would you let me buy them from you?” I asked gently.

“Why?” he asked, confused.

“Because…” I said, my voice breaking, “they were mine once. Then they were his. I just… I need them back.”

Lucas looked at me with soft eyes and said,

“He loved you. He forgave you a long time ago. He just… hoped you had forgiven him too.”

My dad never stopped loving me.

And maybe, just maybe, he knew…
I never stopped loving him either.