On Mother’s Day, I received a handmade gift from my six-year-old grandson—a colorful paper flower glued to a cardboard heart, scribbled with love and innocence. He beamed with pride as he handed it to me, eyes wide with anticipation. I smiled, thanked him, and placed it on the mantel. But later that evening, I quietly threw it away.
I’ve always kept a tidy, curated home. I value aesthetics, symmetry, and elegance. Handmade crafts, especially those made with glue and glitter, feel out of place—cheap, even. I didn’t want it on display. I didn’t want it disrupting the harmony of my space.
But the moment I discarded it, guilt crept in like a shadow. Not because of the object itself, but because of what it represented: effort, love, and a child’s desire to connect. That cardboard heart wasn’t just a decoration—it was a bridge between generations. And I had burned it.
Days passed, and my grandson asked where his gift had gone. I stumbled through an excuse, but his face fell. He didn’t cry. He didn’t protest. He just nodded and walked away. That silence was louder than any reprimand.
I realized then that my preference for “tasteful” decor had cost me something irreplaceable. The gift wasn’t meant to match my furniture—it was meant to remind me that love isn’t always polished. Sometimes it’s messy, loud, and made with glue that doesn’t quite stick.

I’m not proud of what I did. I acted out of vanity, not cruelty. But I’ve learned that love, especially from a child, is sacred. It deserves to be honored, not hidden. So now, I keep a small shelf in my study—cluttered with crayon drawings, lopsided crafts, and crooked smiles. It’s the most beautiful corner of my home.