I lost everything in a single day—my job, my home, and then my father. At the reading of his will, my sister claimed the house and shut me out. I was left with nothing but an old apiary… and a secret I never saw coming.
Routine became my life’s anchor. I stocked shelves, greeted customers with a practiced smile, and remembered who always bought a particular brand of cereal or how often they ran out of milk.
After every shift, I counted my earnings, setting aside a bit each week without any real intention. It wasn’t so much a plan as it was a habit.
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Then, in one sudden moment, everything shattered like a dry cookie crumbling under careless hands.
“We have to make cuts, Adele,” my manager said. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t wait for me to reply. There was nothing left to say. I removed my name tag and set it on the counter.
I trudged home in silence, but as I reached my apartment building, an unsettling feeling washed over me. The front door was ajar, and a faint hint of an unfamiliar woman’s perfume hung in the air.
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“Oh, you’re back. We need to talk.”
“I’m listening.”
“Adele, you’re an amazing person, really. But I feel like I’m… changing. And you’re just… staying where you are.”
“I see,” I muttered.
“I need someone who challenges me to grow,” he said, his gaze drifting to the window.
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That “someone” was sitting outside, waiting in his car.
I didn’t protest. I didn’t plead. I grabbed my suitcase and walked out. The city seemed vast, and in that moment, I felt completely lost. Just then, my phone buzzed.
“I’m calling regarding Mr. Howard. I’m sorry to inform you, but he has passed away.”
Mr. Howard. That’s how everyone referred to him. But to me, he was Dad. And just like that, my path was decided.
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In half an hour, I bought a bus ticket and left the city behind, heading toward the place where my childhood had been rewritten. Howard had never been my father by blood. He had become my father by choice.
By the time I was almost grown, after years of bouncing between foster homes, he and my adoptive mother had taken me in. I wasn’t a sweet, wide-eyed toddler who could easily fit into a family. I was a teenager.
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But they loved me all the same. They showed me what it meant to feel at home. And now, that home was gone. My mother had passed a year ago. And then… this.
I was an orphan once more.
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The funeral service was subdued. I stood at the back, overwhelmed by grief, too absorbed in my emotions to pay attention to the sharp glances my adoptive sister, Synthia, kept casting in my direction. She wasn’t pleased that I was there, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.
After the service, I went directly to the lawyer’s office, expecting nothing more than a few old tools from Dad’s garage, maybe something small to hold onto as a keepsake.
The lawyer opened the will.
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“As stated in the final will of Mr. Howard, his estate, including all possessions within, is to be inherited by his biological daughter, Synthia Howard.”
Synthia flashed a smug smile, as though she’d claimed something she’d always known was meant for her. The lawyer went on.
“The apiary, along with everything inside it, is hereby bequeathed to my other daughter, Adele.”
“Excuse me?”
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“The beekeeping estate,” the lawyer repeated. “As per Mr. Howard’s wishes, Adele is to inherit the land, its hives, and any profits from future honey production. Additionally, she has the right to live on the property as long as she maintains and cares for the beekeeping operation.”
Synthia let out a sharp, bitter laugh.
“You’re kidding.”
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“It’s all outlined in the will.” The lawyer held up the papers.
Synthia’s eyes narrowed as she glared at me. “You? Taking care of bees? You can’t even keep a houseplant alive, let alone manage an apiary.”
“It’s what Dad wanted,” I said, finally speaking, though my words felt hollow.
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“Fine. You want to stay? Take your damn bees. But don’t think you’re moving into the house.”
“Wait, What?”
“The house is mine, Adele. If you want to stay on this property, then you’ll take what’s been left for you.”
A cold dread slowly crept into my stomach.
“And where exactly do you expect me to sleep?”
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“There’s a perfectly good barn out back. Think of it as part of your new rustic lifestyle.”
I could’ve fought back. I could’ve argued. But I had nowhere else to turn. I had lost my job, my life, my father. And even though I was supposed to belong there, I was nothing more than a stranger.
“Alright.”
Synthia let out another mocking laugh, stood up, and grabbed her purse.
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That evening, I carried my bag toward the barn. The earthy scent of dry hay filled the air as I stepped inside. Outside, I could hear chickens clucking, settling in for the night.
“Well, I hope you enjoy the scent of hay.”
The farm’s sounds enveloped me. I found a quiet corner, dropped my bag, and sank into the straw.
Tears came silently, hot streaks running down my cheeks. I had nothing left. But I wasn’t going to leave. I was going to stay. I was going to fight.
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The nights remained chilly, despite spring slowly making its way across the land. So, the next morning, I walked into town and spent the last of my savings on a small tent. It wasn’t much, but it was mine.
When I returned to the estate, dragging the box behind me, I found Synthia waiting on the porch. She observed with a smirk as I unpacked the metal rods and fabric.
“This is priceless,” she said, leaning against the railing. “You’re really going through with this? Playing the rugged farm girl now?”
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I ignored her and kept working.
I thought back to the camping trips I used to take with Dad—how he’d taught me to build a fire pit, set up a proper shelter, and store food safely in the wild. Those memories pushed me forward in that moment.
I gathered stones from the edge of the property and built a small fire ring. Using an old iron grate I found in the barn, I set up a makeshift cooking area. It wasn’t a house. But it was a home.
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Synthia, still watching from the porch, shook her head in disbelief.
“Spring camping is one thing, Adele, but what will you do when the weather turns cold?”
I didn’t rise to her bait. There were bigger things demanding my attention.
That afternoon, I met Greg, the beekeeper who had worked with my father for years. He had been the one to maintain the apiary after Dad passed, but until that moment, I hadn’t had the chance to meet him.
Greg was standing near the hives when I approached. His expression darkened as he saw me coming.
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“Oh, That`s you.”
“I need your help,” I said, getting straight to the point. “I want to learn how to keep the bees.”
Greg let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You?”
He looked me up and down, clearly sizing me up as the city girl I was.
“No offense, but do you even know how to approach a hive without getting stung to death?”
I squared my shoulders. “Not yet. But I’m ready to learn.”
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“Yeah? And what makes you think you’ll last?” Greg’s voice was skeptical, but there was an edge of something else in it—perhaps a challenge.
I could almost hear Synthia’s voice echoing in my head, her sneers, her dismissive laughter taunting me.
“Because I don’t have a choice.”
But to my surprise, Greg let out a low chuckle, his frown softening slightly.
“Alright, then. Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said, the challenge clear in his tone.
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Learning proved to be harder than I had anticipated.
I had to overcome my fear of the bees—their swarming, the low hum of their bodies vibrating through the air. The first time I put on the protective suit, my hands shook so badly that Greg had to redo the straps for me.
“Relax,” Greg said, his voice calm. “They can sense fear.”
“Great. Just what I needed.”
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He laughed at my hesitation.
“If you don’t want them to sting you, don’t act like prey,” Greg said with a grin.
In the weeks that followed, Greg became my mentor. He taught me everything I needed to know: how to install foundation sheets into the frames, how to inspect a hive without disturbing the colony, and how to spot the queen among thousands of identical bees.
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Some days, I was drained before noon. My body ached from carrying the heavy frames. I smelled of smoke, sweat, and earth. And yet, I had a purpose.
That evening, something in the air felt off.
I had just stepped onto the property, my arms loaded with groceries, when a sharp, acrid scent wafted into my nose.
“Smoke… Oh no! My beehives!”
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The fire roared, its orange tongues licking the darkening sky as it spread across the dry grass, consuming everything in its relentless path.
My tent was gone—nothing but charred fabric left, curling and melting under the intense heat. It had destroyed everything I had left—my clothes, bedding, and all the remnants of the small life I’d tried to rebuild.
But then, my gaze landed on the beehives.
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They were too close to the flames, the thick smoke drifting in their direction. If the fire reached them…
No. I wouldn’t let that happen. I grabbed a bucket from beside the well and ran toward the fire, but…
“Adele! Get back!”
Greg.
I turned to see him sprinting across the field. A moment later, others followed—neighbors, local farmers, even the elderly man from the general store. They carried shovels, buckets, and anything they could grab.
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I barely had time to process the chaos before everyone sprang into action.
“Get the sand!” Greg shouted, his voice cutting through the panic.
People scrambled, dragging heavy sacks of dry dirt from the barn. They ripped them open, hurling sand over the flames, suffocating them with each throw, cutting off their air.
The smoke burned in my lungs, but I didn’t stop. We worked as one, battling the fire until, finally, it began to die down.
I turned toward the house. There, standing on the balcony, was Synthia. She watched the scene unfold, her gaze cold and distant.
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She hadn’t lifted a finger to help. I turned away.
The beehives were safe. But my home was gone.
Greg approached, wiping soot from his forehead. His eyes lingered on the window where Synthia had stood just moments before.
“Kid, your neighborhood isn’t the safest. I’d suggest harvesting that honey sooner rather than later.”
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We washed our hands, wiped the exhaustion from our faces, and without a word, returned to work.
I carefully lifted the wooden frame from the hive, brushing off the few bees still crawling across the surface. The combs were thick and full, the honey glistening golden in the soft evening light.
Then, something caught my eye. A small, yellowed envelope was wedged between the wax panels. My heart skipped a beat. Gently, I pulled it free, feeling a strange tension in the air as I unfolded it and read the scrawled words on the front.
“For Adele.”
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I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. Inside, folded neatly, was a second will. The real will. I began to read.
“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 openly, but I knew I wouldn’t get the chance. Synthia would never allow it. She has always believed that blood is the only thing that makes a family. But you and I both know better.”
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I didn’t have time to file this will officially, but I knew exactly where to place it—somewhere only you would find it. I hid it in the very thing she despises most, the one thing she would never touch. I trusted that if you chose to stay and fight for this, you would earn what was always meant to be yours.
Adele, this house was never just walls and a roof—it was a promise. A promise that you would always have a place where you belong.
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“As my final wish, I leave you everything. The house, the land, the beekeeping estate—everything now belongs to you. Make it a home. Make it yours.
With all my love,
Dad.”
The house had always been mine.
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That evening, when Greg and I finished harvesting the honey, I walked up the house’s front steps for the first time. Synthia sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea. I placed the will on the table in front of her.
“Where did you get this?” she asked, her voice tight, as she skimmed the words.
“Dad hid it inside the beehives. He knew you’d try to take everything, so he made sure you’d never find it.”
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For the first time since I arrived, she had nothing to say.
“You can stay,” I said, and she looked up at me, surprised. “But we run this place together. We either learn to live like a family or don’t live here at all.”
Synthia scoffed, setting the will down. “You’re serious?”
“Yeah.”
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Then, finally, she leaned back in her chair, exhaling a slow, tired laugh.
“Fine. But I’m not touching the damn bees.”
“Deal.”
The days drifted by, and life began to settle into a rhythm. I sold my first jars of honey, feeling a sense of accomplishment as my efforts bore fruit. Synthia kept the house in order, maintaining its old charm while I tended to the bees. Greg, once a stranger, now became a friend—someone to sit with on the porch at sunset, swapping stories and quietly reflecting on the day’s work.
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