I lost everything in one day—my job, my home, and then my father. At his will reading, my sister took the house and shut me out. I was left with nothing but an old apiary… and a secret I never saw coming.
Routine. That was the foundation of my life. Every morning, I stocked shelves at the grocery store, greeted customers with a polite smile, and memorized which regulars preferred what brands. I knew who always bought the same loaf of bread, who needed their milk restocked every three days, and who indulged in a secret stash of chocolate bars.
At the end of every shift, I counted my wages, setting aside a little each week. I didn’t have a specific goal—it was just habit. Something that made me feel in control.
And then, in a single day, everything crumbled like a dry cookie between careless fingers.
“We’re making cuts, Adele,” my manager said. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t wait for a response. There was nothing to discuss. I took off my name tag, placed it on the counter, and walked out.
As I trudged home, my mind swirled with anxiety. How would I pay rent? What would I do next? But when I arrived at my apartment, I sensed something was off. The door was slightly open, and the scent of unfamiliar perfume hung in the air.
My boyfriend, Ethan, stood in the living room beside my suitcase.
“Oh, you’re home,” he said casually. “We need to talk.”
My stomach twisted. “I’m listening.”
“Adele, you’re a great person, really. But I feel like I’m… evolving. And you’re just… staying the same.”
“Oh,” I muttered.
“I need someone who pushes me to be better,” he continued, avoiding my gaze.
That “someone” was currently waiting outside in his car.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg. I picked up my suitcase and walked out.
The city felt enormous, and suddenly, I had nowhere to go. Then my phone rang.
“I’m calling about Mr. Howard. I’m very sorry, but he has passed away.”
Mr. Howard. That was how they addressed him formally. But to me, he was Dad.
I arrived back in my hometown as the sky darkened. The air smelled of pine and soil, a sharp contrast to the city’s exhaust fumes. The funeral was small. I stood in the back, too consumed by grief to acknowledge the sharp glances from my adoptive sister, Synthia. She wasn’t happy I was there. I didn’t care.
After the service, we gathered at the lawyer’s office for the reading of the will. I expected nothing—maybe Dad’s old toolset, a watch, some small token to remember him by.
The lawyer cleared his throat and read aloud.
“As per the last testament of Mr. Howard, his residence, including all belongings within, is to be inherited by his biological daughter, Synthia Howard.”
Synthia smirked, as if she had won some competition. Then, the lawyer continued.
“The apiary, including all its contents, is hereby granted to my other daughter, Adele.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The beekeeping estate,” the lawyer repeated. “Adele is to take ownership of the land, its hives, and any proceeds from future honey production. She also has the right to reside on the property as long as she maintains and cares for the operation.”
Synthia let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You? Taking care of bees? You can’t even keep a houseplant alive.”
I swallowed hard. “It’s what Dad wanted.”
“Fine,” she said, standing up. “Then you can have your bees. But don’t think you’re moving into the house.”
“What?”
“The house is mine. If you want to stay, take the barn.”
She turned on her heel and walked away before I could respond. I could have fought her. I could have screamed. But I had nothing left. No job. No home. No family. Except for the bees.
The nights were cold. The barn smelled of hay and dust. After the first night of shivering, I walked into town and spent my last bit of savings on a tent. It wasn’t much, but it was mine.
Synthia watched from the porch, her arms crossed. “This is hilarious,” she said. “You’re really doing this? Living in a tent with a bunch of bees?”
I ignored her.
I remembered the camping trips Dad and I had taken. How he’d taught me to build a fire, store food properly, and survive outdoors. I used those skills now. I set up a fire pit, a small cooking area. It wasn’t a house. But it was home.
That afternoon, I met Greg, the beekeeper who had worked with Dad for years. He was standing by the hives when I approached.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, frowning.
“I need your help,” I said. “I want to learn how to take care of the bees.”
Greg raised an eyebrow. “You?” He looked me up and down. “No offense, but do you even know how to approach a hive without getting stung to death?”
“Not yet. But I’m willing to learn.”
He let out a chuckle. “Alright then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Learning was harder than I expected. The first time I put on a beekeeper’s suit, my hands trembled so badly Greg had to redo the straps.
“Relax,” he said. “They can smell fear.”
“Great,” I muttered. “Just what I needed.”
Over the next few weeks, he taught me everything: how to inspect a hive, spot the queen, harvest honey. It was exhausting. I smelled like smoke and sweat. But for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had a purpose.
Then, one evening, I smelled smoke.
I turned the corner and saw flames. The fire licked across the dry grass, dangerously close to the hives.
Greg and the neighbors rushed in with buckets of water and sand. We fought until the fire was out.
When the smoke cleared, I found my tent in ruins. My home was gone. But the beehives were safe.
Greg dusted off his hands and glanced at Synthia, who had stood on the porch watching the entire time. “Kid, you need to harvest that honey sooner rather than later.”
As I worked, I pulled a wooden frame from a hive and gasped. Hidden between the honeycomb was a small, yellowed envelope.
It was addressed to me.
With trembling hands, I opened it.
Inside was a second will. The real will.
Dad had left everything to me—the house, the land, the apiary. He had hidden the will in the one place he knew Synthia would never touch.
That evening, I placed the document in front of her.
“Where did you get this?” she asked.
“Dad hid it in the hives,” I said. “He knew what you’d do.”
For the first time, she had no words.
“You can stay,” I said. “But we run this place together.”
Synthia scoffed. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
She exhaled, then laughed bitterly. “Fine. But I’m not touching the damn bees.”
“Deal.”
The house was finally mine. But more importantly, I had built something of my own.
And I wasn’t going anywhere.
