I never knew her face, but I know the life she left me. Her house is small and quiet, lined with shelves of worn paperbacks that still carry her scent. In the kitchen, her mixing bowls sit where she placed them, as if waiting. I bake there now, not to escape my grief but to honor it, to shape it into something warm enough to share.
Each pie I deliver carries my name and a simple message: you are not forgotten. I walk into shelters and hospital wards that feel too familiar, set the boxes down, and remember the girl who stood barefoot in the snow with nothing. Kindness did not bring my family back, but it stitched a future where I’d only seen ash. Somewhere between loss and flour-dusted countertops, I learned that what we give away has a way of finding us again, transformed into hope.
