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.