Every Saturday, They Brought Jelly Doughnuts—and Healed My Heart

Our house felt empty that summer after my grandparents died. The sheets on the bed in their room were untouched, and the television was at a quiet volume when the morning news was on. The stillness made me feel uneasy and was a constant reminder of what I had lost. An eerie silence haunted my family. 

One morning, a surprise knock on the door startled us. Our neighbors, Gary and John, stood there holding a warm loaf of banana bread wrapped in foil. A few days later, our cousin Leigh showed up with a wedge of Brie and a bowl of strawberries, hoping to bring us a smile with our favorite snack. Everyone brought something. But the gift I remember most came in a white bakery box from two people I barely knew.

Growing up, my family always spent the summers out on Shelter Island, a small island between the North and South Forks of New York’s Long Island. My maternal great-grandparents moved there in the 1960s, where my great-grandfather became the island’s only doctor for 20 years. As a result, my mom and her parents spent their summers there, and later so did my dad, my sister Ellie, and I. The island quickly became a place that defined our family. The warm seasons were filled with love as my family and my maternal grandparents, Mima and Pipa, spent our days making macaroni salad and watching Jeopardy!. 

But the summer of 2015 marked the end of an era. We lost both Mima and Pipa within nine months. I was young and had never experienced death before. While I felt confused and sad, I quickly understood that our summers on Shelter Island would never be the same, because the love and joy we experienced with my grandparents were gone. 

That summer, family and friends continuously tried to cheer us up with food deliveries. One Saturday morning, we heard beeping from the driveway, and my mom, Ellie, and I walked outside to see who was there. Immediately, we recognized the car with the “Oma X4” license plate. Oma and Opa, our friends’ grandparents, emerged from the car holding a white bakery box from Kyle’s, a local bakery on the island. My mom handled the pleasantries, while Ellie and I stood silently, staring and imagining what might be inside.

Oma and Opa noticed our curiosity and opened the box to reveal four large golden doughnuts. Red jelly oozed out of each one, staining the sides of the box. Oma told us we had to try them because she had never tasted anything so good. I was skeptical—I was a big Dunkin’ Donuts jelly munchkin fan—but I was willing to try. 

They were the best doughnuts I’d ever tasted. Filled with raspberry jam and covered in white caster sugar, the warm doughnut exploded in my mouth. Sugar clung to my fingers, and jam squirted out with each bite. Jelly got all over the countertop, which made my dad mad, but I didn’t care. At that moment, I was happy. 

The following weekend, Oma and Opa returned with a new box of jelly doughnuts. The routine continued each Saturday, quickly becoming something I looked forward to—the doughnuts and the chance to hear my mom, Oma, and Opa discuss the latest news on the island. Their visits were a much-needed distraction from the sadness I still felt. 

One morning, they stopped by while my parents were out, so Ellie and I had to be brave and meet them on our own. Usually, my mom did all of the talking, so we weren’t sure what to do. But when we got to the car, Oma began asking friendly questions, and Ellie and I slowly warmed up as we told them all about our summer activities.

After that day, Ellie and I looked forward to their weekly visits. They became our time to tell Oma and Opa about our latest camp adventures, their dogs, and whatever else excited us that week. Each of these doughnut deliveries helped heal the hole I felt in my heart. 

Eventually, the driveway chats turned into afternoon-long visits. Ellie and I rode our bikes over to their house, where we’d play Rummikub, learn about new bird species with Opa, and quiz Ellie on the times tables she was trying to memorize for third grade. Seeing the two of them made me feel whole again. I realized the love they shared with me was just like that of Mima and Pipa. Oma and Opa helped me see that the feeling of family on Shelter Island wasn’t lost—it was just different.  

Ten years later, I still cherish the relationship I formed with Oma and Opa during that difficult summer. I see them as our own grandparents, sharing in the latest stories from college and high school. A lot about our summers on Shelter Island has stayed the same over the years, except for one thing: No longer am I escaping sadness. I’m relishing the love, compassion, and tenderness from two strangers who became so much more—all made possible by a sugary jelly doughnut.