Nancy’s son, Henry, had been her entire world. She never thought she’d have to live without him. It had been 23 years since the accident that took Henry’s life, but every year on the same day, Nancy visited his grave with a special gift—his favorite pie. This year, however, would bring an unexpected twist.

At 61 years old, Nancy had never missed this annual tradition. Each year, she baked Henry’s favorite pie, a simple yet beloved apple and cinnamon dessert. It had been his favorite ever since he was a little boy. The smell of cinnamon and apples always brought back memories of him racing into the kitchen, eyes wide with excitement, waiting for the pie to cool.

This tradition was her way of keeping Henry close to her heart. Losing him at 17 had been the most painful event of her life, and the grief never fully faded. Yet, baking that pie and taking it to his grave gave her a small sense of connection to her son, like she was still doing something for him. The ritual helped her cope with the loss, even as the years went by.

On this particular anniversary, like every year before, Nancy carefully carried the freshly baked pie to the cemetery. As she approached Henry’s grave, the familiar weight of her grief settled in. The grave, adorned with flowers, was a sign that Henry was still deeply loved.

Nancy knelt down, placed the pie on his gravestone, and whispered softly as though Henry could hear her. “I made your favorite pie again, sweetheart. I wish we could share it just like we used to.” After a few moments of reflection, she kissed her fingers and touched the gravestone before walking away, comforted by the thought that she’d return the following year.

The next day, as she always did, Nancy returned to the grave to clean up the remains of the pie. Usually, it was either untouched or spoiled by the elements, but this time, something was different. The plate was completely empty. Puzzled, Nancy stood frozen, her heart racing with confusion.

Then, she saw a small piece of paper on the plate. With trembling hands, she picked it up and unfolded it. The note, written in shaky handwriting, simply read: “Thank you.” Nancy’s heart filled with a mix of anger and confusion. “Who would take Henry’s pie?” she wondered. Her private ritual, a way to honor her son, had been disrupted by a stranger.

Determined to find out who had taken the pie, Nancy made a plan. That evening, she baked another pie and returned to the grave the next morning. This time, she stayed hidden behind a nearby oak tree, watching to see who would come.

After an hour of waiting, a small figure emerged. To her surprise, it wasn’t the thief she had imagined. Instead, it was a young boy, no older than nine, wearing ragged clothes. He approached the grave cautiously and, instead of taking the pie right away, he knelt down and pulled out a small piece of paper. Slowly, he scribbled the words, “Thank you.”

Nancy’s anger melted away. She realized this boy wasn’t stealing—he was hungry. Stepping out from her hiding place, she startled the boy, who dropped the pie in fear. “I’m sorry! I was just so hungry,” the boy cried.

Nancy knelt beside him, her heart softening. “It’s alright, sweetheart. You don’t have to steal. If you’re hungry, just ask.”

The boy, whose name was Jimmy, looked up at her with wide eyes. Nancy offered to bake him a fresh pie, and together they returned to her house. As they sat in her kitchen, the smell of the baking pie filled the air, bringing warmth and comfort.

As Jimmy ate, his joy reminded Nancy of Henry, and for the first time in years, she felt a sense of peace. In that moment, Nancy realized that her son’s favorite pie had brought comfort to someone in need, and it was perhaps Henry’s way of sending her a message—kindness and love should always be shared.