The schoolbag felt like a boulder on Dylan’s tiny shoulders as he trudged home, kicking pebbles along the cracked sidewalk. His hands were stuffed deep into his pockets, his eyes glued to the ground. What burden could an eight-year-old possibly bear?

At school, everyone was buzzing about the same thing. Tomorrow was “Superhero Day,” and nearly every kid had already decided which flashy jersey they’d wear. Capes were being debated. Masks were being compared.

All except Dylan.

His stomach twisted as he thought of his grandma Mariam—Mimi, as he called her. He knew better than to ask. She simply couldn’t afford a superhero jersey, no matter how badly he wanted one.

As he reached their small cottage at the far end of the picturesque street, he spotted Mariam in the backyard, her wrinkled hands gently pulling beetroots from the soil. The late afternoon sun caught in her silver hair, making her look softer somehow.

“Mimi, I need to talk to you,” Dylan called, his voice tight with frustration he didn’t know how to name.

“Be there in a jiffy, sweetie!” Mariam chirped back.

Dylan stomped inside and flung his schoolbag across the room. It hit the table, knocking over an old framed photograph. Glass shattered softly, spider-webbing across the smiling faces of a baby Dylan cradled in his parents’ arms.

His chest clenched.

Mariam had told him the story countless times—how his parents had died in a tragic car crash when he was barely a year old. Since then, she had been everything to him. His home. His safety. His world.

She raised him alone, scraping by on whatever she could earn selling homemade cookies, fresh eggs from their backyard chickens, and hand-knitted scarves and mittens around town. It wasn’t much, but Dylan had never gone without warmth, care, or love.

She hurried inside, dirt still on her apron. “What’s wrong, my little man?”

Dylan’s lip trembled. Tears spilled freely now.
“Can… can you buy me a superhero jersey, Mimi? Please? It has to be Spiderman.”

Mariam’s heart cracked quietly. “Oh, honey,” she whispered, pulling him close. “Let me see what I can do.”

After Dylan retreated to his room, she searched the house with frantic determination—cookie jars, pillowcases, drawers, even the rusty tin hidden behind peeling wallpaper. When she finally counted her savings, her hands shook.

Ten dollars.

It was everything she had.

“I’ll be right back, sweetie,” she called, forcing steadiness into her voice.

The bell above the door jingled as she stepped into Smalltown Styles, the only children’s clothing store for miles. Her breath caught when she spotted it—a single Spiderman jersey hanging proudly on display.

“How much for that one?” she asked.

The shopkeeper winced apologetically. “Sixty-five dollars, ma’am. Last one.”

Mariam nodded, swallowing her disappointment. “Thank you anyway.”

She left before the shopkeeper could finish offering alternatives.

That evening, Dylan barely touched his dinner. His bedtime prayer was rushed, his voice hollow. For the first time ever, he climbed into bed without giving Mariam a goodnight kiss.

When his breathing finally evened out, Mariam quietly went to work.

She removed Dylan’s worn Spiderman poster from the wall and carried it into her room. There, under a flickering lamp, she fired up her old knitting machine. Through the long night, her arthritic fingers moved with fierce determination, weaving red and blue yarn into something familiar.

By dawn, her eyes burned with exhaustion—but she smiled.

In her hands lay a woolen Spiderman sweater, imperfect and handmade, stitched together with pure love.

“Dylan, honey!” she called softly. “I’ve got a surprise for you!”

Dylan’s eyes widened as he saw the sweater laid out on the table. For just a second, disappointment flickered across his face. Then he hugged her tightly.

“I love it, Mimi!” he said, his voice brave.

As he walked to school, Mariam waved proudly, unaware of the weight pressing on his small heart.

The laughter hit him the moment he entered the classroom.

The taunts came fast. Sharp. Cruel.

“Is that wool?”
“Did your grandma knit that?”
“Spiderman turned into a sheep!”

Dylan fled the room, tears blinding him.

When Mr. Pickford learned what had happened, something hardened behind his calm expression. He said nothing—only smiled thoughtfully.

Monday morning came.

Dylan walked into class prepared for pain.

Instead, the room fell silent.

“There’s my superhero partner!” Mr. Pickford boomed, standing proudly in an identical Spiderman sweater.

The room erupted—not with laughter, but awe.

Mr. Pickford pulled Dylan close and snapped a photo. “Your grandma knitted this for me,” he whispered. “She’s extraordinary.”

By afternoon, word had spread.

Two days later, Dylan returned home to chaos—cars lining the street, parents crowding the yard, money exchanging hands.

Mariam sat beaming, taking orders for superhero sweaters of every kind.

That night, as they walked toward the glowing lights of the amusement park, Dylan squeezed her hand.

“I love you, Mimi.”

She smiled through misty eyes. “To the moon and back.”

And wrapped in yarn, kindness, and courage, Dylan learned a lesson far bigger than superheroes:
True heroes don’t wear capes.
Sometimes, they knit them.