After decades of tending the estate, I was cruelly fired by Stuart, the spoiled heir. Heart heavy, I returned one last time to the garden where I’d shared so much with Mr. Jared—my friend and employer who had passed away.
As I knelt among the plants, preparing the soil, I noticed fresh earth disturbed near the roses. Digging carefully, I uncovered a small wooden chest buried beneath the surface. Inside were bundles of cash, gold bars, and a note in Jared’s handwriting: “This is for you, friend. I know you need this! I love you.”
Tears blurred my vision. Even in death, Jared had protected me and my grandson Eli. I placed the treasure in a bank account for Eli’s future, choosing a humble job nearby so I could care for him.
Over time, Eli flourished, and news came that Stuart lost everything and was leaving the estate. I felt no joy in his downfall—only a quiet peace.
Walking with Eli one evening, he asked about the box. I smiled, telling him, “Some gifts aren’t meant to be opened until you’re ready.”
Sometimes, the seeds we plant grow far beyond what we can see.
