I’m Rachel. Last year, my husband left me, I lost my job, and my life collapsed. I ran away to a tiny cabin in Vermont to grieve and disappear. Within a day, my elderly neighbors, Evelyn and George, welcomed me—along with Evelyn’s terrible cooking.
Her food was awful, but she was so proud that I lied and said I loved it. One day, when I tried to throw it out, George stopped me and begged me not to tell her the truth. After their daughter Emily died, Evelyn hadn’t been able to cook for 18 years. Feeding me made her feel alive again, like she was caring for her daughter.
So I kept pretending. Over time, we became a family.
Then George had a stroke, and Evelyn stopped cooking out of fear of hurting him. The house went quiet and empty. I finally cooked for them instead, and it brought Evelyn back to life. We started sharing meals, stories, and grief together.
Now we’re inseparable. Evelyn still cooks badly, but she laughs about it. Last week she made a casserole that was almost good. When I told her it was perfect, she cried and said Emily would’ve loved me.
And somehow, we all found each other when we needed it most.