Nancy had always been devoted to her son, Henry. He was her world. When he passed away 23 years ago in a tragic accident, it shattered her. But every year since, on the anniversary of his death, she would bake his favorite apple and cinnamon pie and take it to his grave. It was her way of keeping his memory alive, of doing something special for him, even though he wasn’t physically there.
She never missed a year. For 23 years, without fail, she brought that pie to his grave, rain or shine. It was Henry’s favorite since he was a little boy, and whenever she baked it, the smell of apples and cinnamon would take her right back to the days when he’d run into the kitchen, all excited, eyes wide with joy at the sight of it fresh out of the oven. Baking that pie was like keeping a small piece of him close.
This year, as usual, she carefully carried the pie to his grave. The weight of it felt heavier with each step, like it always did when she got close. The grave was covered in fresh flowers, reminding her how loved Henry still was.
Nancy knelt by his gravestone, placing the pie down gently. “Henry,” she whispered, her voice full of emotion, “I brought your favorite again. I miss you so much.” Tears filled her eyes, but she smiled a little, thinking of how he used to sneak a bite before the pie was even ready. “I wish we could share it, just once more.”
She sat there quietly for a few moments, then kissed her fingers and touched the gravestone before walking away. The next day, as always, she’d come back to clean up whatever was left of the pie—usually, it was untouched or spoiled by the weather.
But this time, something was off.
When Nancy returned the following day, the pie was gone. She was shocked. For 23 years, the pie had always been left alone. But this time, not only was it missing, there was a small note left on the plate. Her hands shook as she picked it up and opened it. The writing was messy, almost shaky, and it just said: “Thank you.”
Nancy’s heart raced with confusion and, to be honest, anger. Who had taken the pie meant for her son? This was personal, something she had done for Henry, and now someone had intruded on it. She needed to find out who it was.
So, the next day, she baked another pie—Henry’s favorite, of course—but this time, she didn’t leave. She hid behind a big oak tree near the grave, determined to catch whoever had been messing with her ritual.
She waited for about an hour before she saw someone approach. It wasn’t what she expected at all. A young boy, maybe nine or ten, dressed in worn-out clothes, came walking slowly toward the grave. He looked around nervously before kneeling down by the gravestone.
He took out a small piece of paper and a stubby pencil, just like the note she had found the day before. The boy wasn’t stealing the pie—he was just a hungry kid, grateful for the meal.
Nancy’s anger vanished in an instant. She stepped out from behind the tree, and when the boy saw her, he dropped the pie, terrified. “I’m sorry!” he cried, panicking. “I didn’t mean to take it! I was just so hungry.”
Nancy’s heart broke for him. She knelt down beside him and said gently, “It’s alright, sweetheart. You don’t need to steal. If you’re hungry, you just need to ask.” The boy’s name was Jimmy, and he told her that he didn’t have anyone to take care of him. He’d been scraping by, finding food wherever he could.
Nancy could hardly hold back her tears—not out of sadness this time, but because she felt so much compassion for this child. She took Jimmy’s hand and said, “Come with me. Let’s bake you a fresh pie.”
Back at her home, Nancy made another apple and cinnamon pie, just like the one she always made for Henry. Jimmy watched her with wide eyes, his stomach growling with anticipation. When the pie was ready, he ate it like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted, and Nancy couldn’t help but smile through her own tears.
As she watched him, something clicked inside her. This unexpected encounter gave her a new sense of purpose. In a strange way, it felt like Henry’s memory had brought her and Jimmy together. By helping this little boy, she was honoring her son in a way she’d never imagined. All that grief she’d carried for so long led her to something beautiful—a new connection that filled a little bit of the emptiness in her heart.
Maybe this was Henry’s way of telling her that love and kindness should always find those who need it most.
Nancy smiled, her heart warm with gratitude, knowing she’d found a new way to keep Henry’s memory alive.