Grief drove me into the dark. One winter night erased my family, my home, every photograph that proved we existed. I slept in a shelter bed, pretending I wasn’t broken, until the kitchen lights pulled me in. Flour, sugar, and borrowed pans became my language. I baked for people I’d never meet, leaving pies and no name, pouring love into crusts and fillings because words had failed me. I never expected anything to come back. I never imagined a stranger, dying in a hospice bed, tasting one of those pies and deciding my future with the stroke of a pen. The day her final gift arrived, tucked beside a pecan pie and a letter, my entire life pivoted on a single, sugared cr… Continues…
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