I bought this handknit cardigan at a vintage store’s retirement sale last week. It’s very simple, craft store acrylic/wool blend (itchy), but so beautifully made. The person who made this was skilled: the seams impeccable, the ends carefully woven in, the stitches smooth and even, except for a little laddering on the sleeves where she was probably using double pointed needles. There is so much care in the work, and I bought it for $3 at a used clothing store because I like the buttons.

I get it: I knit. There are people I will knit for and people I won’t, and the defining difference between them is whether they will appreciate the effort, time and, yes, love that goes into making something by hand that they will (hopefully) wear next to or close to their skin. When I took a second look at this little cardigan and realized it was a handknit, I felt simultaneously responsible for rescuing it and guilty for knowing I will snip those buttons off it and will never consider wearing it, even if it did fit.

It’s now a cat cuddler. To whoever made this, know that it is still appreciated, even if most likely not as intended.