I was down on my knees in the east garden, my hands deep in the soil, when Margaret from the kitchen came running toward me, clearly shaken. “Arthur, have you heard? Mr. Stuart is coming back today. He’s taking over everything,” she said, her voice trembling. I gave a slow nod as I gently placed another bulb into the ground.

“Yes, I heard.” Ever since Mr. Jared passed, I’d been dreading this moment. I had worked these grounds for decades, watching the seasons pass through the lens of dirt-stained gloves and a wheelbarrow full of trimmings. These gardens weren’t just a job to me—they were home. Mr. Jared had been more than a boss; he was a companion, someone who appreciated quiet moments among the roses and weeds. We had spent hours together in the garden behind the main house, sharing stories, jokes, and silences that only true friendship could make comfortable.

Now, his son Stuart was returning, ready to take the reins of what he had inherited. Margaret asked what was going to happen to the staff, and all I could say was, “We do our jobs.” But inside, I knew things were going to change—and not for the better. Just then, my grandson Eli appeared at the edge of the garden, asking if he could help. He’d been living with me since that awful day two years ago when we lost his parents. Eli, a bright and kind-hearted 14-year-old with a love of books, had become my reason for waking up every day. I smiled and handed him some bulbs. We worked in companionable silence until we heard the crunch of tires on gravel.

A sleek luxury car pulled into the driveway, and out stepped Stuart, wearing dark sunglasses and an expression that screamed entitlement. “That him?” Eli whispered. I nodded, recognizing the same smugness he had as a boy when he used to yank flowers just to annoy me. “Remember what I told you,” I said softly. “Be respectful, keep your distance, and—” “Never let anyone make me feel small,” Eli finished confidently. The first few weeks with Stuart in charge were worse than I imagined. He scrutinized everything and fired people for minor slip-ups. Where Jared had been kind and just, Stuart was cruel and impatient.

One day, he approached me and acted like he didn’t know who I was. “You’re Arthur, right? The gardener my father liked so much,” he said, his tone condescending. “Yes, sir,” I replied. “These hedges are a mess, and the roses look half dead. My father put up with mediocrity. I won’t,” he snapped. I gritted my teeth and promised to take care of it. I couldn’t afford to lose my job—not with Eli relying on me. Things continued to spiral. Stuart and his friends turned the estate into a circus—parties, reckless driving, smashed flowerpots—it never stopped. Then one morning, Stuart stormed toward me, furious. “You! Old man! Someone scratched my car. Was it your sneaky grandson?” he barked. “Eli’s at school all week, sir. Summer program,” I replied calmly. “Well, someone did it! And you’re always here—” “I’m the gardener, not security,” I said before thinking. His face twisted in rage. “You’re done here. Gone by sunset.” I didn’t argue. I felt strangely at peace. After changing out of my uniform, I wandered into the garden behind the house—the place I hadn’t touched since Jared died. I needed to say goodbye properly. As I knelt and cleared some weeds, I noticed something unusual: a patch of disturbed soil. I dug gently and soon hit something hard—a small wooden chest, sealed with a latch. My hands trembled as I opened it. Inside were stacks of cash, small gold bars, and a note in Jared’s handwriting. “This is for you, friend. I know you need it. I love you.—Your friend, Jared.” Tears filled my eyes. Even in death, Jared had looked out for me. I left the estate quietly that evening, saying nothing to Stuart. The next day, I took everything to the bank and placed it in a safe deposit box under Eli’s name. It wasn’t for me—it was for his future. I found work maintaining the grounds at the local high school. The pay was modest, but it was honest work, and I was close to Eli. He flourished—earning scholarships, making me proud with every report card. One night, he came home waving a letter. “I got into the summer science program!” he beamed. “That’s amazing,” I said. “Your parents would be proud.” He paused. “Do you think Mr. Jared would be proud too?” I smiled. “I know he would.” Not long after, Margaret told me Stuart had lost everything—the estate was going up for sale. I just nodded. “That’s a shame.” “A shame?” she asked. “After what he did?” I simply said, “Bitterness is too heavy a burden. I can’t carry it—not with Eli watching.” A few weeks later, Eli asked about the box I had found. I looked at him, taller and wiser now. “When you’re ready,” I said. “When you’ve built something so strong, it won’t change who you are.” We walked together in silence. And I thought of Jared, of the garden, and how the seeds we plant in hearts can grow even deeper roots than the ones we plant in soil.