I reached into my bag one afternoon and my fingers brushed against my scarf. That was when I noticed the stitches. At some point it must have torn, though I never realized it. The mending was so neat, so careful, each thread pulled with quiet precision by hands that had spent a lifetime caring for others without asking for anything in return.

It was Nana’s work.

She was not our blood, but she was ours. She raised me and my brothers, looked after my parents, uncles, and later, cared for my own children. She was like a second mother, steady in presence, practical in ways, and quietly loving. The kind of no-nonsense aunt whose “I love you” was never spoken but always felt. She was always there, when life was easy or hard, in moments of triumph and in the depths of heartbreak. She was the one who held me as I mourned my parents, the anchor I could always lean on.

She was so well loved that even my friends were fond of her. They would come over, laugh with her in the kitchen, and make requests for their favorite dishes. Whenever she could, she would cook those meals, remembering every preference, every smile that came with the first bite.

When she caught COVID, we clung to hope through long weeks in the hospital, praying for her recovery. But her heart gave out. In her final moments, we could only speak to her and hear her voice through the phone. That parting broke something deep inside me.

Even now, I sometimes catch myself calling out to her, expecting her to answer from another room. Sometimes she visits me in my dreams, and for a brief moment, it feels like she never left. Then I see just how much work she did to give us a home and realize she made all the wonderful things happen for us all on her own. She ran a household in such a seamless manner that Jik and I still struggle to match her meticulous methods.

When I run my fingers over the stitched lines on my scarf, I feel more than just fabric and thread. I feel her patience, her devotion, and her love, woven into every careful pull of the needle. She is still here in the little things, watching over us in her quiet way, as she always did.