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When I was 16, our house caught on fire at night. My dad pulled me out through the front door. He went to get my mom and grandpa. But they didn’t come back. The fire took all three of them. After that, I wasn’t living. I was drifting. The fire took our house, our savings, our photos, and our clothes. Everything except me. And I wasn’t sure I deserved to be the one spared. A local volunteer service helped me get a room in a community dorm-style shelter. Shared kitchen, two bathrooms per floor, but it was safe, clean, and warm. I was grateful. Especially because my only living relative, my mom’s sister (my aunt), refused to take me in. “I don’t have the space, and I’m not about to give up my reading nook for a teenager,” she said. What she did do, however, was take half of the insurance payout I received. I didn’t argue because I’d already lost the thing most precious to me—my family. During the day, I studied to get into college and find work. At night, while everyone else watched TV in the common room, I took over the kitchen. I baked pies for the local hospice and the homeless shelter downtown. Apple. Peach. Strawberry rhubarb, when I could afford it. Sometimes 10 in one evening. Once, 20. I saved up for flour, fruit, and butter. Anything I could afford out of my monthly aid. I dropped them off anonymously, handing them to the nurses or volunteers. I never met the people who ate them. That was too hard. My aunt didn’t understand. “You’re wasting money. You should be sending that money to ME. I lost my sister,” she said. Still, I kept baking. It gave me purpose. Until two weeks after my 18th birthday, a brown box showed up at the front desk with my name written in neat cursive. No return address. Inside was A PECAN PIE. Perfectly golden, beautiful braided crust, lightly dusted with powdered sugar. The smell was enough to make me dizzy. I was surprised. I had no idea who sent it. But as I cut it, I nearly blacked out when I saw what was HIDDEN inside. ⬇️
