OLD LADY BROUGHT SON'S FAVORITE PIE TO HIS GRAVE – FOUND A NOTE UPON HER RETURN NEXT DAY For 23 years, Nancy, now 61, never missed a single day on this date. She baked her late son's favorite pie and took it to his grave every year since. The pie, a simple yet delicious apple and cinnamon creation, had been Henry's favorite since childhood... It was his favorite dessert, and baking it had become a tradition they both cherished. Since Henry's tragic accident at 17, this ritual had been Nancy's way of keeping his memory alive. Even though the years had passed, her grief remained, only softened by time and the small comfort this tradition brought her. On this particular day, just like every year before, Nancy carefully carried the freshly baked pie to the graveyard. The familiar sorrow welled inside her, but Nancy wiped her eyes quickly and managed a small smile as she said her quiet goodbye. The next day, as part of her routine, Nancy made her way back to Henry's grave to clean up. Usually, by the time she returned, the pie was either untouched or spoiled by the weather, a quiet reminder of her son's absence. But today, as she approached the grave, something felt different. Nancy's heart skipped a beat when she saw that the plate was clean — completely empty! Then, something else caught her eye. A small, folded piece of paper rested on the plate. Nancy's hands trembled as she reached for it. Slowly, she unfolded the note, her breath hitching as the words inside came into view. The full story is in the comments.

For Nancy, her son Henry had always been her world. He was her joy, her reason for living. But 23 years ago, everything changed when a tragic accident took him from her. Since then, she had clung to a small but meaningful tradition: every year, on the anniversary of his death, she would bake Henry’s favorite apple-cinnamon pie and take it to his grave. It was her way of staying connected to him, of keeping his memory alive in the only way she knew how. That day was no different from the others.

Nancy arrived at the cemetery, carefully holding the warm pie in her hands. She placed it gently on the gravestone, her fingers tracing the familiar letters of Henry’s name. Silent words left her lips, words she had spoken every year—words of love, sorrow, and longing. Though so much time had passed, the grief was still sharp, always there, like an ache she had learned to live with.The next day, Nancy returned to the cemetery, expecting to find the pie where she had left it. But when she arrived, her heart sank.