The sky was orange the day my whole world cracked open like an egg, the orange of a good yolk. But this egg was rotten. The air smelled of sulfur and woodsmoke, the stench of old growth burning away. I never thought the fire would reach my home, naïve I know, I thought the city would be safe. I thought my home would be okay. Wildfires happen every year in Alberta, but they never reached my home until this year. I thought it would be alright, but I should have known better to put my trust in fire. Even after I was told that the flames had reached my home, after we had been evacuated, I never believed it would happen to me. Not until I visited the wreckage of my home. When I visited, I saw that the once bright white, laminate siding had pooled into large grey globs on the ground, looking like a melted snow fort made with dirty slush. My belongings couldn’t stand a chance. My memories? Burnt away like offerings to a god I didn’t believe in. Why would I stay? How could I leave? The answer to that question came from my brother a few days later. At this point I’d been living out of a small suitcase in a Best Western for a few weeks and I was beginning to get a little stir crazy. My old job at a national park had been put on indefinite hold, so I didn’t dare go out to do anything that would use up what stores of money I had, or the pittance the government gave me to live on. I needed something to do. After stressful circumstances and losses, my brain always itches to do something. I can never rest when I’m stressed. When I had a home I would bake if something intense was going on in my life. Piles of cakes, croissants, and cookies would appear like magic from my hands, ready to be popped into my lunch bag or brought as gifts to friends. But those days were gone. Or so I thought. My brother had a professor who retired to run a bed and breakfast in Saanich, a lifelong dream of hers that took 40 years to come to life. He told me she had been a biology professor in her working life, but she’d always wanted to run a bed and breakfast. Why? She thought it would be an adventure. After university, my brother kept in touch with his favourite professors, so when he had his yearly check in with Dr. Richards, (“Call me Silvia!” She’d insist) he mentioned my predicament. “Send her to the island! I always need a helping hand at the B&B, and you’ve always talked about how your sister is an excellent baker! I’d be happy to have her here. I’ll even give her room and board along with pay.” So I went. I bought the cheapest ticket I could and flew into Victoria Airport. Silvia met me there in a beat up jeep and drove me to my new home. And it really was a home. The building looked like a cottage out of a fairytale, surrounded by thick gardens full of bright flowers and fragrant herbs. Each day I felt myself grow stronger, though my heart didn’t ache any less for the home I lost but my grief became different. I channeled it in the food I made to feed Silvia’s guests. It was soothing to just do anything that was not just dwelling on the past in a hotel room. Focussing my energy into something other than grief became my lifeline. There was a certain cadence to the B&B. A steady thrum in my heart that said “this is home.” And home it became. Over the years I’ve taken control over the B&B, since Silvia could not live forever. But I will always be grateful to her for providing me a place and a purpose when my whole life had been smashed like an eggshell.