She made pies because her mother had made them, and had taught her with such loving care — how to make sure the meat was seared before it was folded into the buttery-soft crust, how to spice it just-right, how to know when it was baked through-and-through.
She made pies because she was good at it, and because she liked to see the smiles on people’s faces when they bit into that flaky crust and tasted the succulent, juicy meat within.
Everyone smiled when they tasted one of Benjamina’s pies. It wasn’t the jeering grins of the boys she knew in her youth, or the sneering smiles of noble ladies who wouldn’t let her pass in Millfields without nearly falling into the lake.
No, these were smiles — of appreciation, of delight. Of love.
There was only one man that wouldn’t look at her, or eat her pies, or smile at her.
And it festered like a wound.
this is exactly how i imagined it starting
eddie you are the best