Grief pushed me into baking long before I understood why. When I was sixteen, a fire destroyed my home and took my family. I was left alone, homeless, and living in a youth shelter. My only relative, my aunt, refused to take me in and spent the insurance money meant to help me on herself.

I buried myself in school by day and in the kitchen by night. Baking pies became my refuge—a way to keep my hands busy and my heart from breaking. I’d make dozens, then quietly deliver them to the homeless shelter and hospice without leaving my name. It was easier to love anonymously, without expecting anything in return.

Then one day, I received a pecan pie with a note from a woman named Margaret—a hospice patient whose final months my pies had sweetened. She left her estate to me, a fortune worth millions, though she never knew my name. A nurse had followed me one night and ensured I was cared for in return.

I moved into Margaret’s home, a place full of warmth and memories. I continue baking pies, leaving cards that say, “Baked with love. From someone who’s been where you are.”

The gift wasn’t the money—it was the proof that love poured out in darkness could find its way back, healing and whole. In losing everything, I found a peace I never thought possible.