My late Grandpa, the man who told me wild stories about buried gold and promised me the world, left me with what seemed like the ultimate disappointment: a dusty old apiary. Who would abandon their grandchild in an insect-infested shack?
It was a typical morning when Aunt Daphne, staring over her spectacles at the mess on my bed, ordered me to pack for school. I was texting and ignoring my friend Chloe, but she remained firm, reminding me that Grandpa had hoped for me to be strong and independent, and that the beehives would not tend themselves.
I recalled the good days with Grandpa, the honey, and the bees, but my thoughts were on the forthcoming school dance and my crush Scott, so I agreed to inspect the hives “maybe tomorrow.”
Aunt Daphne cautioned me that tomorrow never comes and requested I take care of Grandpa’s apiary, but I shouted at her, claiming I had better things to do than tend to bees, which made her unhappy, but I rushed off to catch the bus, irritated by the burden.
The next day, Aunt Daphne chastised me for skipping my responsibilities and grounded me for avoiding my responsibility with the bees. I grumbled about being afraid of being stung, but she assured me that I’d wear protective gear and that a little fear was normal but couldn’t deter me.
