At first, I felt sorry for her.
I remembered what it was like to move. The boxes nobody labeled properly. The first night in a strange bedroom where every sound is unfamiliar. The loneliness of not knowing where the nearest grocery store is, or which neighbor might actually wave back. I couldn’t imagine doing all of that right after a marriage had ended.
So I did what I’ve always done when I don’t know how to help someone. I baked.
I made her a welcome-to-the-neighborhood pie. Apple, of course. It’s the one people remember. I carried it over still warm, with a little card tucked under the foil that said, We’re right next door if you need anything.
I meant it kindly. Looking back, I may as well have written my husband’s phone number on it.
Vanessa hugged me in the doorway like we were old friends. She told me the pie smelled like her grandmother’s kitchen. I spent that afternoon helping her unpack, flattening boxes, hanging towels, and lining her kitchen drawers. Before I left, I invited her over for coffee whenever she wanted.
