I was annoyed that my grandfather only left me an old apiary until I noticed the beehives – Story of the Day

My late grandfather, the man who told me stories of buried treasure and promised me the world, had left me the biggest disappointment: a dusty old apiary. Who leaves their grandson a pile of insects? That was a slap in the face until the day I peered into the hives.

It was a normal morning. Aunt Daphne peered over her glasses at the mess on my bed. “Robyn, are you ready?”

“I’m texting Chloe,” I explained, hiding the phone.

“It’s almost time for the bus! Get ready!” Aunt Daphne said, stuffing books into my backpack.

I looked at the time. 7:58 am. “Phew, okay,” I sighed, getting out of bed.

He handed me a shirt, ironed and ready. “This isn’t what your grandfather hoped for you, you know? He thought you’d be strong, independent. And those hives he left behind? They’re not going to take care of themselves.”

I remembered the times with Grandpa, the honey, the bees. But now, my mind was on the upcoming school dance and my crush, Scott.

“I’ll check them out, maybe tomorrow,” I said, fixing my hair.

“Tomorrow never comes for you. Grandpa believed in you, Robyn. He wanted you to take care of the apiary,” he insisted.

“Look, Aunt Daphne,” I said sharply. “I have better things to do than take care of Grandpa’s bees!”

I saw Aunt Daphne’s face fall and her eyes fill with tears. But the school bus honked just then, and I ran out, ignoring her sad expression.

On the bus, my thoughts were focused on Scott, not the apiary I’d inherited from Grandpa Archie. “Who wants an apiary?” I thought, annoyed by the responsibility.

But the next day, Aunt Daphne brought up the subject again. She scolded me for neglecting my homework and spending too much time on my phone.

“You’re grounded, young lady!” he declared suddenly, and that’s when I finally looked up from my phone.

“Punished? For what?” I protested.

“For shirking responsibility,” he replied, mentioning the neglected apiary.

“The apiary? That useless bee farm?” I mocked.

“It’s about responsibility, Robyn. It’s what Grandpa wanted from you,” Aunt Daphne said, her voice tight with emotion.

“Aunt Daphne,” I protested, “I’m afraid they’ll bite me!”

“You’ll be wearing protective gear,” she replied. “A little fear is normal, but you can’t let it stop you.”

Reluctantly, I headed to the apiary. As I approached the hive, I felt both fear and curiosity. I put on thick gloves, opened the hive, and began collecting the honey, my heart pounding.

Suddenly, a bee stung my glove. I was about to give up, but a wave of determination washed over me. I had to finish this. I had to prove to Aunt Daphne that I wasn’t the reckless, irresponsible 14-year-old she thought I was.

While collecting honey, I discovered a weather-worn plastic bag inside the hive containing a faded map with strange markings. It looked like a treasure map left behind by Grandpa Archie.

Excited, I stuffed the map in my pocket and pedaled home. I left the half-full jar of honey on the kitchen counter, sneaked out, and followed the map into the woods.

Navigating through the familiar woods, I remembered Grandpa’s stories and laughed at his encounters.

When I entered a clearing that seemed straight out of Grandpa’s stories, I couldn’t help but shiver. This was the exact place where he’d talked about the legendary White Walker of the forest, sparking my childhood imagination.

And there it was, just like in his stories: the old gamekeeper’s house, seemingly forgotten by time with its peeling paint and sagging porch. “Grandpa used to come here, to eat sandwiches and cake after collecting honey, and weave his incredible stories,” I thought, feeling a bittersweet nostalgia.

Touching the ancient dwarf tree near the porch, I could almost hear Grandpa’s playful warning: “Careful, kiddo. Let’s not disturb the grumpy dwarfs,” as if we were returning to those carefree afternoons.

I found the old hidden key and opened the cabin, entering a world time had forgotten. The air smelled musty, and dust motes glittered in the sunlight.

There, beckoning my attention, was a beautifully carved metal box on a dusty table. Inside was a note from Grandpa, just for me:

“To my dear Robyn, inside this box is a special treasure for you, but it must not be opened until the true end of your journey. You will know when the time comes. All my love, Grandpa.”

I was dying to see what was inside, but Grandpa’s last instruction echoed in my head: “Only at the end of your journey.”

I couldn’t ignore his last wish.

I continued my journey through the forest, but after a while I felt like I was lost.

“This map is useless,” I realized, unable to see a way out of the forest. I didn’t know when I started to cry.

But then I remembered something important. “Grandpa always told me to stay calm,” I told myself. “I can’t give up.”

Then, I heard a noise like a small twig breaking in the distance, and it made me think of scary stories from when I was little. “Maybe Aunt Daphne was right to warn me,” I thought, looking around at the vast forest. But thinking of Grandfather’s advice gave me enough courage to keep going, guiding me through the enveloping wilderness.

I took a deep breath and nervously tried to think clearly. Going back seemed like a good idea, but it would be difficult to see clearly in the woods after dark. There was a bridge, the one Grandpa always talked about…  that might help , I thought.

Wiping away a tear, I straightened my backpack. “Okay, Robyn,” I whispered to myself. “Let’s find that bridge.”

But that confidence didn’t last long. The sun was setting, and the forest was becoming threatening. Exhausted, I collapsed under a tree, longing for Aunt Daphne’s cozy kitchen.

My backpack offered me no solace, only reminders of my lack of preparation. Desperately searching for food, I found nothing but stale cookie crumbs. “Focus, Robyn. Find the bridge. Find water,” I urged myself, ignoring the hunger.

So, again remembering my grandfather’s advice, I used healing leaves for my wounds and continued forward, propelled by the sound of running water. But the river wasn’t the gentle stream I remembered, but a dangerous, swift torrent.

Ignoring the treacherous path, I made my way down the rocky bank, driven by a desperate thirst. Reaching the water’s edge, I knelt and cupped my hands to scoop up the cool liquid. It tasted slightly metallic, but at that moment, it was a life-giving nectar.

As I stood up, the precarious ground betrayed me. I slipped and fell into the icy stream; I screamed for help. My backpack dragged me under. “Grandpa,” I whispered helplessly. Thinking of him, a glimmer of clarity pierced the panic. He wouldn’t have wanted me to give up. He had taught me to fight, to be brave.

I decided to ditch my backpack, but I kept Grandpa’s metal box. Fighting against the current, I struggled toward the shore, refusing to give up.

My fingers brushed against a solid log, a lifeline in the churning chaos. I clung to it with all my might, as the current tossed me around like a rag doll. Then, with one final push, it deposited me, sputtering and bruised, on the muddy shore.

I took off my soaked clothes and hung them on a tree to dry. My eyes then fell on a metal box that might help me find my way back.

Grandpa had told me to wait until the end of my trip to open it, but I couldn’t wait any longer. Inside, I didn’t find any treasure, just a jar of honey and a photo of us together. Then I realized that this trip and the real treasure had to do with the value of hard work, as Grandpa always said.

Tears came to my eyes as I thought about how I had ignored all the wisdom Grandpa had shared with me. I had been chasing adventures, forgetting the important things he had tried to teach me.

Wiping away my tears, I told myself it was time to get going, to make Grandpa proud. I started building a shelter out of branches and leaves under a large oak tree. It was tough, but enough to get me through the night.

The next morning, the bright sun woke me up. I made my way through the woods, clinging to that metal box like a lifeline, thinking about Grandpa.

Remembering the times we went fishing together warmed me up a little. “Slow and steady,” I could almost hear him say. I even started humming one of his favorite tunes, feeling like he was there with me.

When I saw a bridge in the distance, hope bubbled inside me. With Grandpa’s lessons in my heart, I wasn’t alone. But then, the forest turned into a confusing maze, and I began to panic. Just when I thought I couldn’t go on, I stumbled into a clearing and collapsed, completely exhausted.

It was then that a dog found me and I heard a chorus of muffled voices: “There it is!”

Waking up in a hospital bed, I saw Aunt Daphne beside me. “I’m sorry,” I managed to say, overwhelmed with regret. “I’m so sorry, Aunt Daphne.”

“Hush, darling. You’re safe now,” he said softly.

“I’ve ruined it,” I shouted. “Grandpa was right about everything!”

Aunt Daphne took my hand and smiled. “He always loved you, honey. Even when you were mad at him, even when you didn’t understand why. Remember how upset you were that you didn’t get that smartwatch a few weeks before he passed away?”

“I never appreciated him or anything he did for me. He was always there for me. Grandpa was both my mother and my father after his death. But I…”

“He knew you’d understand, baby. He always believed in you, even when you didn’t believe in yourself.”

At that moment, he reached into a bag next to his chair and pulled out a brightly colored box. My breath caught in my throat as I recognized the familiar blue wrapping paper: the same one Grandpa always used for gifts.

“This is for you,” Aunt Daphne said gently, placing the box on my lap. The Xbox I wanted.

“Grandpa wanted you to have this,” Aunt Daphne continued. “He said when you learned the value of hard work and understood the importance of patience and perseverance, it would be yours.”

“I’ll behave, Aunt Daphne,” I promised. “I don’t need this anymore. I’ve learned my lesson.”

Aunt Daphne’s smile, this time brighter and filled with genuine joy, was all the comfort I needed. I reached over to the headboard and pulled out the small jar of honey.

“Do you want some honey, Aunt Daphne?” I asked, offering her the sticky jar.

He took the jar, dipped a finger in, and tasted the honey. “It’s sweet,” he said, his voice soft. “Just like you, Robyn. Just like you.”

The years have flown by since then. Now, at 28, a million miles from that grumpy teenager to a bee boss with two little ones of my own (who thankfully love honey!), I’ve learned a thing or two about responsibility.

Thank you, Grandpa! Thank you for everything you taught me!  I sigh every time I see the happiness on my children’s faces when they enjoy honey.

That delicious honey is a reminder of the beautiful bond Grandpa and I shared.

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