Margaret’s house is in a quiet neighborhood with wide streets and big porches. It smells like cedar and old books, and the front porch swings in the wind. There’s a little greenhouse in the backyard full of roses and orchids. Her husband built it for her on their 30th anniversary. I moved in last month. I still haven’t touched the money.
But I bake in her kitchen now. I use her wooden spoons, her rolling pin, and her mixer. The note above the oven reads, ‘The best ingredient is time.’ I still bring pies to the hospice, the shelter, and now the hospital as well. However, I now leave a small note on each box with my name. ‘Baked with love. From someone who’s been where you are.’
A stranger’s pie changed my life. But it was her kindness, not the money or the house, that gave me something I hadn’t felt in years. Peace.
