When my grandfather passed away, it broke me. He’d always been my rock — the one who told me bedtime stories, slipped me candy behind Mom’s back, and gave the wisest advice whenever life felt too heavy. So when the day came to read his will, I went in heartbroken but hopeful, certain he’d left me something special to remember him by.
The lawyer began reading. One by one, my siblings’ names were called, each inheriting massive sums of money — millions, in fact. They cried, hugged, and celebrated. And then… silence. My name was never mentioned.
I just sat there, frozen, heat creeping up my neck. Did he forget me? Did I do something to upset him?
Then the lawyer looked straight at me and said quietly, “Your grandfather loved you more than anyone.” He slid a small envelope toward me.
“That’s… all?” My voice trembled as I opened it with shaking hands.
Inside was a letter, written in Grandpa’s familiar handwriting:
“Sweetheart, I’ve left you something more important than money. Take care of my old apiary — that little worn-down bee yard behind the woods. When you do, you’ll understand why I chose you.”
The apiary? That shabby place where Grandpa used to spend hours with his bees? Why would he leave me that?
Avoiding Grandpa’s Bees
A few days later, I was lying in bed when Aunt Daphne appeared, peering over her glasses at the clutter on my sheets.
“Robyn, have you packed your bag yet?”
“I’m texting Chloe,” I mumbled.
“It’s almost bus time. Get moving,” she insisted, stuffing books into my bag.
She handed me a neatly ironed shirt. “This isn’t the life your Grandpa wanted for you. He believed you could be strong and independent. And those beehives? They won’t take care of themselves.”
I thought about Grandpa, the honey jars, and the buzzing hives — but my mind was elsewhere. The school dance was coming up, and my crush, Scott, was all I cared about.
“I’ll check them tomorrow,” I said.
“Tomorrow never comes with you, Robyn. Grandpa believed in you,” she pressed.
Rolling my eyes, I snapped, “I’ve got better things to do than look after bees!”
Her expression crumpled, but before I could say anything else, the school bus honked, and I bolted.
Grounded
The next day, Aunt Daphne confronted me again, frustrated that I’d ignored chores and spent all my time on my phone.
“You’re grounded,” she declared.
“For what?” I protested.
“For refusing to take responsibility — especially for the apiary,” she said firmly.
“The bee farm? That useless thing?!” I scoffed.
“It’s not useless. It’s about responsibility — what Grandpa wanted for you,” she said, her voice tight.
“I’m scared of getting stung,” I muttered.
“You’ll have protective gear. Fear’s normal, but it can’t run your life,” she countered.
Facing the Hive
Reluctantly, I trudged out to the apiary. Suiting up in gloves and gear, I opened a hive and began harvesting honey, my heart hammering. A bee bounced off my glove, making me flinch, but I pushed through. I needed to prove Aunt Daphne wrong.
That’s when I spotted it — a worn plastic bag wedged inside the hive. Inside was a faded map, marked with strange symbols. My pulse quickened. Could this be one of Grandpa’s famous “treasure maps”?
I tucked it into my pocket and biked away, leaving a jar of honey on the kitchen counter.
Into the Woods
Following the map into the forest, memories of Grandpa’s wild tales filled my head. The path led to a clearing — the very one from his “White Walker” stories — and there stood the old gamekeeper’s cabin.
I touched the gnarled dwarf tree by the porch, remembering Grandpa’s teasing about “grumpy gnomes.”
Finding a hidden key, I unlocked the cabin. Inside, dust motes floated in the still air. On a table sat a beautifully carved metal box with a note:
“To my dear Robyn, this is a special treasure — but don’t open it until your journey’s true end. You’ll know when that time comes. Love, Grandpa.”
Curiosity burned, but I honored his wish — for now.
Lost and Determined
As I wandered deeper, I realized I had no idea where I was. Panic rose. My eyes stung with tears.
“Stay calm, Robyn. That’s what Grandpa would say,” I whispered to myself.
I searched for the bridge he always mentioned, but the forest grew darker and more threatening. Exhausted, I sank under a tree, starving and thirsty.
Remembering Grandpa’s lessons, I used heal-all leaves for my scrapes and pushed toward the sound of water. But the river I found was a raging current, not the gentle stream from my memories.
A Fight for Survival
Driven by thirst, I crept to the water’s edge — and slipped. The icy torrent dragged me under. My backpack pulled me down.
“Grandpa,” I gasped. His voice in my mind told me to fight.
I ditched the pack, clutching only the metal box, and fought toward the shore. My hands found a floating log. I clung to it until the current spat me onto muddy ground.
Shivering, I stripped off my wet clothes and hung them to dry. My gaze fell on the metal box. I couldn’t resist any longer.
Inside was no gold, no jewels — just a jar of honey and a photo of Grandpa and me. That’s when I understood: the treasure was the lesson — patience, hard work, perseverance. Tears streamed down my face.
A Change of Heart
I built a makeshift shelter and spent the night under an oak tree. The next morning, I pushed through the woods, clutching the box. Thoughts of fishing trips with Grandpa gave me strength.
When I spotted a bridge, hope swelled — but the forest soon became a maze again. Just as I was about to give up, I collapsed in a clearing… and woke to voices calling, “There she is!” A dog trotted up to me.
Coming Home
I woke in a hospital bed with Aunt Daphne at my side.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “Grandpa was right about everything.”
She smiled gently. “He always believed in you. Even when you didn’t believe in yourself.”
She pulled out a gift wrapped in Grandpa’s signature blue paper — an Xbox I’d begged for before he died.
“He said you’d get this once you learned the value of patience and hard work,” she explained.
“I don’t need it anymore,” I said softly. “I’ve learned.”
I reached into my bag and pulled out the small honey jar. “Want some?”
She dipped a finger in, tasted it, and smiled. “Sweet — just like you.”
Years Later
Now, at 28, I’m far from that stubborn teenager. I run my own thriving bee business and have two kids who love honey as much as I do.
Every time I see their faces light up over a spoonful, I whisper, “Thanks, Grandpa.” That honey is more than sweetness — it’s the bond we shared and the lessons he left behind.