Synthia let out a laugh. “You? Taking care of bees?” She shook her head. “You couldn’t even keep a houseplant alive.”
I swallowed my retort. This wasn’t about proving myself to her. It was about holding onto the one thing I had left of my father.
“Fine,” she said, standing. “Enjoy your bees. But don’t think you’re stepping foot inside my house.”
My stomach twisted. “Where am I supposed to stay?”
“There’s a barn out back,” she said, her tone indifferent. “Consider it part of your new lifestyle.”
That night, I lay on a pile of hay, staring at the rafters, trying to hold back tears. My job, my father, my place in the world—it was all gone. But I wasn’t going to leave. I was going to fight.
By morning, I spent the last of my savings on a small tent and set it up behind the barn. Synthia watched from the porch, amusement in her eyes.
“This is hilarious,” she said. “So what’s the plan when winter comes? Live with the bees?”
I ignored her. There were bigger concerns.
Greg, the beekeeper who had worked with my father for years, was waiting near the hives when I approached.
“Oh,” he muttered, looking me over. “It’s you.”
“I need your help,” I said. “I want to learn.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You even know how to approach a hive without getting stung?”
I stood my ground. “Not yet. But I’m willing to learn.”
Greg smirked. “And what makes you think you’ll last?”
I thought of Synthia’s laughter, her dismissive attitude. I thought of my father and the home I had lost.
“Because I don’t have a choice.”
Something in my voice made him pause. Then, with a nod, he said, “Alright. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The first time I put on a protective suit, my hands trembled so badly that Greg had to redo the straps. “Relax,” he said. “They can sense tension.”
“Great,” I muttered.
But I learned. I learned how to inspect a hive, how to spot the queen, how to move without disturbing the colony. My muscles ached, and I took a few stings along the way, but I kept going. For the first time in my life, I had purpose.
Then, one evening, I smelled smoke.
I turned the corner, and my heart stopped.
Fire.
My tent was already lost, reduced to ash. The flames licked at the dry grass, creeping toward the hives. I grabbed a bucket and ran, but before I could reach the well—
“Adele! Get back!”
Greg.
He wasn’t alone. Farmers, neighbors, even the elderly man from the general store came running, dragging sacks of sand and shovels. They worked fast, their movements sharp and practiced.
The fire was extinguished before it could spread further.
I turned toward the house.
Synthia stood on the balcony, arms crossed, watching. She hadn’t moved to help. Hadn’t lifted a finger.
Greg exhaled, rubbing soot from his face. His gaze flickered to the window where Synthia had been.
“Kid, you don’t have the safest neighbors,” he muttered. “You might want to check the hives before someone else does.”
Still shaken, I moved to inspect them.
That’s when I saw it.
A small, yellowed envelope, carefully wedged between the wax panels. My breath caught as I pulled it free, my fingers trembling as I read the familiar handwriting.
For Adele.
Inside was a second will.
My dearest Adele,
If you’re reading this, then you’ve done exactly what I hoped—you stayed. You fought. You proved, not to me, but to yourself, that you are stronger than anyone ever gave you credit for.
I wanted to leave you this home outright, but I knew Synthia wouldn’t allow it. So I did the only thing I could—I hid the truth in the one place she would never look.
This house, this land, this apiary… it was always meant to be yours.
With all my love,
Dad.
I clutched the letter, my chest tightening. The house had always been mine.
That evening, after the honey was harvested, I climbed the front steps for the first time. Synthia sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea, as if nothing had changed.
I placed the will in front of her.
She read it slowly, then looked up, her eyes wary. “Where did you get this?”
“Dad hid it in the hives,” I said simply. “He knew you’d try to take everything.”
For the first time, she didn’t have a comeback.
“You can stay,” I said, surprising even myself. “But we run this place together. We either learn to be a family, or neither of us stays.”
Synthia scoffed, shaking her head. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
She studied me, then—finally—let out a dry, tired laugh. “Fine,” she muttered. “But I’m not touching the bees.”
“Deal.”
The days passed, and life found a new rhythm. I sold my first jars of honey, my hard work finally paying off. Synthia, surprisingly, kept the house in order. And Greg, the gruff beekeeper who had once doubted me, became an unexpected ally.
As the sun set over the fields, I sat on the porch, watching the land my father had left behind.
I had lost everything. But in the end, I had found something greater.
A home.
A purpose.
And, for the first time in a long time, a future worth fighting for.