I was kneeling in the east garden, hands buried in the cool soil, when Margaret from the kitchen staff hurried over, her face flushed with urgency.

“Arthur, have you heard? Mr. Stuart is coming back today. He’s taking over everything.”

This estate was more familiar to me than any other place on earth. And now, Stuart was returning to claim what was rightfully his.

What I didn’t voice was the deep ache in my heart whenever I thought about Jared. He was more than just my employer—he was my friend.

We had spent countless hours together, tending the small garden behind the main house.

“Grandpa, I finished my homework. Can I help with the planting?”

Eli, my 14-year-old grandson, stood at the edge of the garden.

Since the accident two years ago that took my daughter and son-in-law, Eli had been my anchor. Polite, studious, and endlessly curious, his love for books never ceased to amaze me.

A sleek car pulled up to the main house, and out stepped Stuart.

Years had passed since I last saw him, yet he still carried that same air of arrogance and entitlement—the same boy who once yanked out irises just to spite me.

The first few weeks under Stuart’s rule were worse than I had feared.

The staff treaded carefully as he scrutinized every corner, dismissing people over trivial mistakes.

Where Jared had been kind and understanding, his son was cold and ruthless.

I did my best to ignore his constant criticisms and the way he acted as if he didn’t recognize me. But deep down, I worried—I couldn’t afford to lose this job.

Weeks turned into months, and Stuart’s lavish parties grew wilder. His reckless friends tore through the gardens in expensive cars, toppling planters and scattering gravel without a care.

The once-peaceful estate had become nothing more than a playground for the privileged and thoughtless.

One late summer morning, as I prepared to compost the garden beds, I heard heavy footsteps approaching. Stuart stormed toward me, his face flushed with anger.

I rose slowly, my knees protesting. “Good morning, Mr. Stuart.”

“Don’t give me that. Did you see what happened to my car? Someone scratched the paint. Was it your grandson? That quiet, sneaky kid?”

“Eli was at school all day yesterday, sir. He’s been attending a summer program all week.”

“Well, someone did it. And since you’re supposed to be keeping an eye on this place—”

“I’m the gardener, sir. Not security.”

As he stormed off, a strange sense of peace settled over me.

Maybe this was a blessing in disguise.

I removed my uniform overalls and walked to the garden Jared and I had once nurtured together.

As I worked, I noticed a patch of earth that looked recently disturbed. Digging with my hands, I soon hit something solid. Clearing away the dirt, I uncovered a small wooden chest secured with a simple latch.

Inside, neatly stacked, were bundles of cash, small gold bars, and a folded note in Jared’s familiar handwriting.

“This is for you, my friend. I know you need this. With love, Jared.”

Even in de.ath, Jared had found a way to take care of us. The irony wasn’t lost on me—getting fired had led me to this final gift from a true friend.

Without another word to Stuart, I left the estate.

The next day, I visited the bank, securing everything from Jared’s box in a safe deposit under Eli’s name.

Two years passed more quickly than I had expected.

As we built our new life, I heard from Margaret, who still worked at the estate, that Stuart’s reckless ways had finally caught up with him. He lost everything—the estate, the cars, and whatever illusion of control he once had.