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.