Every night, she’d whip up the same simple dinners. Nothing fancy, just hearty and comforting—mashed potatoes with a sprinkle of black pepper, crisp green beans with a pat of butter, and scrambled eggs with sausages that tasted better than anything from a fancy restaurant. She never used a recipe; she just knew what worked.

“These meals fill you up right, my Quinn,” she’d say, sliding a plate in front of me.

And every evening, before bed, she’d settle next to me on the couch with a small bowl of walnuts. They were already cracked and cleaned, nestled in neat halves. She made sure I didn’t have to lift a finger.

“Eat these, darling,” she’d say, pressing them into my hands. “They’ll keep your heart strong.”

One night, I looked at her, head tilted, puzzled by her words.