My life was predictable—stocking shelves, nodding at customers, and saving a bit each week without a dream. Then, in one day, it vanished. “We’re letting you go, Adele,” my boss said. I walked out, only to find my apartment door open, a stranger’s perfume lingering. My boyfriend, Ethan, stood by my suitcase. “I’m outgrowing you,” he said. I left silently, my world shrinking. Then a call came: my adoptive father, Howard, had died. He and Mom took me in as a foster teen, showing me family. With Mom gone and now him, I was alone. I took a bus to his countryside home, grief guiding me back to the place that shaped me.
At the funeral, my adoptive sister, Synthia, glared, her dislike obvious. At the lawyer’s, I expected a tool from Dad’s shed. Instead, Synthia got the house, and I got the apiary—beehives and land. She laughed. “You, with bees? You kill plants!” I said, “It’s Dad’s choice.” She sneered, “Live with your bees, not in my house. There’s a barn.” With no job or home, I dragged my bag to the barn, its hay scent strong. I sank down, crying, but promised myself I’d stay, fighting for Dad’s memory despite losing everything else.
I spent my last money on a tent, pitching it near the apiary, ignoring Synthia’s jeers. “Camping’s fine now, but winter?” she said from the porch. I built a fire pit and cooking area, remembering Dad’s camping lessons. It wasn’t much, but it was home. I met Greg, Dad’s beekeeper, and said, “Teach me about the bees.” He smirked, eyeing my city look. “You serious?” I nodded. “I have no choice.” He taught me to face the humming hives, my hands unsteady in the suit. I learned to handle frames and spot the queen, my body tired but alive with purpose. One night, smoke stung my nose—my tent was ablaze, flames nearing the hives. I rushed forward, but Greg and neighbors arrived, using sand to kill the fire. The hives were safe, my tent gone. Synthia watched, doing nothing. Greg said, “Get that honey soon.” In a hive, I found an envelope: “For Adele.” A second will read: “You stayed, showing your strength. The house, land, and bees are yours, hidden where Synthia wouldn’t look. Love, Dad.” I showed Synthia, saying, “We
share this as family, or you leave.” She sighed, “Fine, no bees for me.” I sold honey, she kept the house tidy, and Greg became a friend, as Dad’s secret gave me a true home.
