I was planting in the east garden when Margaret rushed over, pale-faced. “Mr. Stuart’s taking over,” she said. Jared’s son—cold and cruel, nothing like his father. I kept planting.

Jared had been more than my employer. We shared quiet afternoons among roses and weeds. After he passed, the estate still beat like a heart in my chest. My grandson Eli, now 14 and orphaned, found comfort helping me there. But that peace didn’t last.

Stuart arrived in a flash car, sunglasses and arrogance. He fired good people for small mistakes, wrecked the grounds, and treated the estate like a toy. Then, one morning, he accused Eli—who was at school—of scratching his car. I was fired. Told to leave by sunset.

Before I left, I visited Jared’s favorite garden. There, under disturbed soil, I found a chest. Inside: gold, money, and a note from Jared—“For you, my friend. I love you.” I wept.

I left quietly, started fresh tending school grounds, and saved every cent for Eli’s future. Years later, when Eli asked what was in the box, I told him, “When you’ve built something strong enough not to change who you are… you’ll know.”

Because the truest things we grow… are never just in soil.