申明，请不要用于商业用途，分享来自quora

Three summers ago, when my mother was recovering from a year and a half of surgeries and chemotherapy, we went to my family cottage for a few weeks. My mother was still really unwell, and had a lot of trouble doing anything. Moving from her bed to the living room couch in the morning exhausted her. She just had zero energy and was suffering all the time.
Ever since I was a kid, she always baked home-made pies for my dad when we were at the cottage, which was something he (and everyone else) was missing that summer, but obviously no one said a word about it. One day she woke up with the single determination of making my dad a pie. It seemed like it took every ounce of will power she had, but she baked him a beautiful strawberry rhubarb pie (his favourite).
We found out a few weeks later that the cancer was still in her body, and spreading fast. She died soon after.
It was the best damn pie I ever tasted, and I cry each time I think of that simple act of love she made for my father.