Grief has a way of reshaping us in ways we don’t expect. For me, it led to the kitchen long before I understood it was trying to save me. I never planned to be “the girl who baked pies for strangers.” I just needed something to do with my hands so my heart wouldn’t fall apart.
It all began on a bitter January night. I was sixteen, lost in my music, pretending to care about homework. Downstairs, my parents were laughing at something on TV when suddenly, the sharp scent of smoke filled the air. My dad rushed into my room, grabbed my arm, and pulled me outside into the freezing snow. He went back for my mom and grandpa—but they never made it out.
The investigators said it was an electrical fire that started in the kitchen. When the flames were gone, all that remained was ash and silence. I was alive, but it didn’t feel like it.
A youth shelter took me in, offering a bed and a roof. My aunt called once, saying she was “grieving too” and couldn’t take me in. I didn’t argue. At that point, I didn’t have the strength.
During the day, I focused on school, hoping scholarships would one day get me out. But at night, I turned to the shelter’s kitchen. Baking became my therapy. It was something I could control—flour, sugar, butter—simple ingredients that came together into something good. I baked pies until sunrise, using whatever fruits I could afford.
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