When I was a child, my grandparents’ kitchen always smelled like warmth.
Not just because of the pies and casseroles my grandma baked, but because their home had a kind of love that wrapped around you like a blanket.
They had been married for over fifty years — long enough to finish each other’s sentences, argue about the thermostat, and still hold hands at the dinner table. I thought their marriage was perfect. But one evening, a simple burnt pie showed me what real love actually looks like.
The Night of the Burnt Pie
It was a chilly autumn evening. I remember sitting at the kitchen table, doing my homework, when the smell of smoke filled the air. Grandma rushed to open the oven, waving her apron in front of her face.
