When I was sixteen, my life ended in smoke. That night, I lost my family, my home, and the version of myself that believed life was fair. What I didn’t realize was that grief would lead me to the kitchen, where flour, butter, and sugar became my voice — and that love would eventually find me in the form of a single pie.
It was a bitter January night. I was half-asleep with music in my ears when the smell hit — sharp, chemical, wrong. The fire alarm screamed. My dad pulled me barefoot into the snow, shoving me into the yard. He went back for my mom and grandpa. They never made it.
Everything burned — walls, photos, savings, even the little ceramic horse my mom gave me when I was ten. Except me. For months, I wished it had been me instead.
I ended up in a youth shelter, a small dorm room, and tried to survive. My only living relative, Aunt Denise, refused to take me in. Instead, she spent my mother’s portion of the insurance payout on herself. I didn’t argue. I was too numb.
At night, I took over the shelter kitchen. Old, battered, and half-broken, it became mine after dark. I baked pies — blueberry, apple, cherry, peach — rolling dough with a wine bottle I found in the trash, cutting crusts with a butter knife. My hands, shaky from anxiety, steadied with flour. Baking became my ritual, my rebellion, my lifeline.
Continue reading on next page…