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?
I assumed it was a cruel prank until I looked inside the beehives.
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.
