The pompous heir of the estate he loved most of his life heartlessly fired Peter, the dedicated gardener…
After the haughty heir of the estate he had loved and cared for most of his life fired Peter, the dedicated gardener visited a specific garden one last time. Peter found something unexpected while immersed in bittersweet memories that changed his and his grandson’s future.
Diana from the kitchen came running over, her cheeks flushed with fear, as I kneeled in the west garden, my hands buried in the rich, cold dirt.
“Peter! Have you heard? Mr. Charles returns today. He will manage everything.”
I nodded slowly, planting another bulb. “Yes. I heard.”
Since old Mr. Henry died, I dreaded this day. I had nurtured these gardens for decades, watching each flower and leaf tell my tale.
Nothing felt more like home than this land. Charles, Henry’s only son, was returning to claim his rightful share.
“What will happen to us?” Diana asked softly as the hedges rustled.
“We keep working,” I whispered. “We can only do that.”
She didn’t know how much I missed Henry. He was more than an employer—he was a buddy I spent quiet mornings and long afternoons with.
The hidden garden behind the main home required many hours of care. We laughed, told stories, and had quiet moments among the old roses and tenacious weeds.
Grandpa, I finished my homework! Can I help now?”
Noah, my grandson, waited with bright eyes at the garden edge.
Noah has been my anchor since the accident two years ago that killed my daughter and her husband. Gentle, thoughtful, and eager to learn beyond books, he was always learning.
“Of course,” I said, smiling. “Help me with these bulbs.”
The sound of automobile tires crunching gravel interrupted our serene work. Charles emerged from a shiny automobile that stopped in front of the main house.
Is that him? Noah muttered, holding the garden fork.
My heart sank as I nodded. After all these years, I knew that chilly arrogance—the same lad who tore up the tulips to watch me despair.
“Remember what I taught you,” I murmured gently. Be nice, avoid controversy, and—
“Never let anyone make me feel small,” Noah concluded. “I remember, Grandpa.”
The initial weeks under Charles were harsher than I expected.
Staff moved like scared mice, anxiously looking for his shadow. He critiqued everything, fired people randomly, and wanted perfection.
Charles was ruthless, unlike Henry.
“Is it Peter?” Charles condescended to us one afternoon, as if we had never met. “My father loved the gardener.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, emerging from the rose bushes to confront him.
The hedges are embarrassing. He laughed at the sad roses. I will not tolerate your incompetence, like my father did.
I controlled my rage. “I’ll fix it now, sir.”
He snapped, “See that you do,” and left.
When I resumed pruning, I tried to ignore him. I was afraid of what would happen to Noah and me if I lost this job.
Days became months, and Charles’s opulent gatherings got crazier.
His pals drove fancy cars around the gardens, laughing as they collapsed pots and muddied up my meticulously kept walks.
The careless and entitled used the once-peaceful estate as a playground.
I heard angry footsteps approaching me early one late summer morning while composting the beds. Charles appeared furious.
“You! Old man!”
Chest constricted. The morning Diana told me, Charles’s latest gorgeous lover had left him for a yacht cruise in Italy, and he was hunting for someone to blame.
My knees hurt when I stood up. “Good morning, Mr. Charles.”
“Don’t ‘good morning’ me,” he growled. Did you see my car’s new scratch? Was it your stealthy, quiet grandson?
Sir, Noah was in school all week. He’s in an exclusive summer program.”
Someone did it! You must monitor this property—”
“I’m the gardener, sir. No security.”
Immediately after speaking, I realized my mistake.
Charles’ gaze froze.
“You think you can reply? You think my father loves you makes you untouchable? He spat, kicking over my weed harvest. “My dog could do better than this pathetic mess! Your done. Leave my estate by sundown. You finish!”
The remarks hit hard, but I kept my cool. He stormed away, and I felt strangely calm. Maybe it was time to let go.
I removed my work overalls and gently strolled to the secret garden behind the home, which I hadn’t touched since Henry died. These recollections were too weighty.
“Henry,” I said, crouching among the overgrown blooms. “Let me clear these weeds one last time before I leave.”
I observed a different patch of earth while working.
The disturbance was old, yet I knew every inch of this house like my own. Someone dug here and left bulbs to dry.
My heart raced as I dug further. My fingers hit a sturdy wooden box buried underground.
I found it and slowly opened the clasp with trembling hands.
Within were heaps of cash, a few little gold bars, and a neatly folded message in my familiar handwriting.
“My dear friend. Yes, you need this. I appreciate everything. — Henry.”
Pressing the note to my chest brought tears to my cheeks.
Henry helped me after death. I realized the awful irony—being thrown out brought me to this last, secret gift.
Charles and I parted ways without speaking.
The next day, I put everything in Noah’s safe deposit box at the bank. For his earned future, not now.
Local high school groundskeeping is my new job. Noah was there every day, and the salary was low but honest.
Two years flew by.
Noah finished first in his class, and his teachers talked about scholarships and bright prospects. His sweet spirit remained as he got taller and stronger.
“Grandpa! I got into the advanced scientific camp this summer!” he shouted one night, holding the letter.
“That’s wonderful,” I answered, beaming. “Your parents would be so proud.”
“And Mr. Henry?” Noah asked gently.
I was surprised by the question. I swallowed before responding. “Yes, Henry would be very proud.”
Diana brought word of Charles’s demise as we started our new life.
He was devastated by his recklessness. He lost his estate, cars, and everything he flaunted carelessly.
Diana stated, “He’s moving out next week,” over coffee one day. “The bank sells property.”
I nodded, unsatisfied. It’s unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate? Peter, after everything he did to you? Diana exclaimed. “You’re too kind for yourself.”
Maybe she was right. But I refused bitterness. Not before Noah, who absorbed every word, sentiment, and lesson on manhood.
Noah disturbed the serene stillness as we returned from the park one evening.
“Grandpa… Will you ever tell me what was in that estate box you brought back?
I saw the future Henry had silently protected in him, no longer a boy but not yet a man.
“When the time is right,” I whispered, smiling.
“When is that?”
“When you’re strong enough that it won’t change who you are,” I said, softly squeezing his shoulder. “Some gifts shouldn’t be opened too soon.”
I thought about Henry, our garden, and the seeds we put in hearts that grow long after we die as we walked down the peaceful route. In soil and spirits, some flourish. Both more resilient than expected.
