For 23 years, I’ve kept the same tradition. Every year on this date, I bake my son Henry’s favorite apple cinnamon pie and take it to his grave. It’s a simple recipe, but it meant everything to him. It’s how I remember him, how I keep him close.
Henry passed away in a tragic accident when he was just 17. Ever since then, this ritual has been my way of staying connected to him, even though the years have passed. The grief never really goes away—it just softens. And making that pie, saying my quiet goodbye each year, gives me a small sense of peace.
Yesterday, like every year before, I brought the pie to his grave. I sat there, feeling the familiar wave of sadness, but I wiped away the tears and smiled through it, saying my goodbye.
Usually, when I go back the next day to clean up, the pie is untouched, spoiled by the weather. A silent reminder that he’s not here anymore. But this time, something felt off as I walked toward the grave.
When I got there, my heart stopped. The plate was clean. Completely empty. And then I saw it—a small, folded piece of paper sitting where the pie had been.
My hands were shaking as I picked it up. Slowly, I opened the note, my breath catching as I read the words inside.
For Nancy, her son Henry was everything. She couldn’t imagine life without him. It had been 23 years since the tragic accident that claimed Henry’s life, and every year on the anniversary, she honored his memory by bringing his favorite pie to his grave. But this year, something unexpected was about to happen.
For over two decades, Nancy, now 61, never missed a year. She would bake Henry’s favorite pie—an apple and cinnamon delight—and take it to his resting place. The scent of apples and cinnamon always brought back memories of her little boy eagerly running into the kitchen, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the fresh pie. It had been a tradition they both loved, a way for her to stay connected to him even after he was gone.
Since the accident that took Henry’s life at 17, this ritual became Nancy’s way of coping with her grief. The pain of losing him never truly left her, but baking the pie gave her a small sense of comfort, a way to feel close to her son.
On this particular day, as she carefully carried the freshly baked pie to the cemetery, the weight of the dish seemed heavier than usual. She placed the pie on Henry’s grave, gently running her fingers over the smooth stone that had become so familiar. “I miss you every day,” she whispered softly. “I baked your favorite pie again… I wish we could share it just one more time.”
With a heavy heart, she kissed her fingers and touched the gravestone, saying her quiet goodbye before leaving, as she always did. But the next day, when Nancy returned to clean up, she noticed something shocking—the pie was gone. Instead of the untouched or spoiled pie she usually found, the plate was empty. And on it was a folded piece of paper.
With trembling hands, Nancy opened the note. The handwriting was shaky, and it simply said, “Thank you.”
Anger surged through her. Who would take Henry’s pie? It was a private ritual, a way to honor her son, and now a stranger had intruded on that sacred moment. Determined to find out who had taken the pie, Nancy decided to take matters into her own hands.
