Grief drove me to the kitchen long before I knew why. I didn’t plan to become “the girl who baked pies for strangers.” I just needed to keep my hands busy so my heart wouldn’t shatter.
It was one of those bitter January nights when frost clings to the windows, and the wind cuts through walls. I was sixteen, hiding in bed with earbuds in, pretending homework mattered while my parents laughed at some dumb TV show. Then the smell of smoke hit—sharp, metallic, wrong. The alarm screamed. My dad grabbed my arm, yanked me downstairs, out into snow that burned my bare feet. He ran back for my mom and grandpa. They never came out.
They said it was an electrical fire. It didn’t just take my family—it devoured our home, our photos, our savings, the little ceramic horse my mom gave me for my tenth birthday. I was the only thing left standing in the yard.
A youth shelter took me in: dorm-style beds, shared bathrooms, a common kitchen. Warm, safe, quiet. My aunt Denise called once—she had “no room” for me. She took half the insurance payout for herself, bought a wine fridge, a car, designer hats for book club. I didn’t fight. Numbness looks a lot like compliance.
By day, I buried myself in schoolwork, clinging to scholarships like oxygen. By night, I disappeared into the shelter kitchen. I learned flour by feel, butter by scent, how to make a wine bottle do the work of a rolling pin. Blueberry, apple, cherry, peach, strawberry-rhubarb—I baked as many as I could afford. Sometimes ten. Sometimes twenty.
Continue reading on the next page…