I BRING A PIE TO MY SON’S GRAVE EVERY YEAR — IT HAS ALWAYS REMAINED UNTOUCHED, BUT THIS TIME, THE PLATE WAS EMPTY WITH A NOTE ON IT 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 23 years, Nancy had faithfully honored her son Henry’s memory with a beloved ritual. Ever since the tragic accident that took his life at 17, she visited his grave each year on the anniversary, bringing along his favorite apple and cinnamon pie. The scent of apples and cinnamon always brought her back to moments in the kitchen

when young Henry would light up at the sight of the freshly baked pie, eagerly asking, “Is it ready yet, Mom?” Baking it and bringing it to him became her way of holding onto those memories, a small

source of comfort despite the constant ache of loss.
Now 61, Nancy carefully carried the warm pie to the cemetery once again. Somehow, the dish seemed heavier in her hands this year, weighed down by time and grief. When she arrived, she placed the pie

on Henry’s grave and ran her fingers along the smooth stone, as familiar as his touch had once been. “I miss you every day,” she whispered, her voice soft with sorrow. “I baked your favorite pie again…

I wish we could share it just one more time.”
She stood there for a long while, the scent of apple and cinnamon filling the air, blending with her memories and her tears. It was her way of keeping her son close, even after so many years, a tradition of love that could never be broken.