“Arthur, Mr. Stuart is back today—and taking over everything.”
This estate was home to me—and now it belonged to him. But my heart still ached for Jared, who had been not just my employer, but my friend. He and I spent countless hours tending the garden behind the house.
“Grandpa, I finished my homework. Can I help plant?”
That was Eli, my 14-year-old grandson. Since his parents died two years ago, he’s been my anchor—quiet, curious, studious.
Soon after Stuart arrived—cold, entitled—I saw how different he was from Jared. He dismissed staff without cause. His parties grew wild, his friends drove recklessly through the gardens.
One morning, as I worked compost, Stuart stormed at me, furious over a scratched car. He demanded, “Was it your grandson?”
I replied calmly, “Eli was at summer school all week. I’m the gardener, not security.”
When he walked away, a calm washed over me.
While digging later in our old garden, I uncovered a buried wooden chest. Inside: cash, gold bars, and a note in Jared’s handwriting:
“This is for you, my friend. I know you need this. With love, Jared.”
Even in death, Jared was taking care of us. Fired from the estate, I walked away without a word.
The next day, I opened a safe-deposit box in Eli’s name.
Two years passed. With those funds, Eli and I built a new life. Margaret told me Stuart’s recklessness had finally caught up—he lost the estate, the cars, everything.