I lost everything in one day—my job, my home, and then my father. At his will reading, my sister took the house and shut me out. I was left with nothing but an old apiary… and a secret I never saw coming.
Routine. That was the foundation of my life. I stocked shelves, greeted customers with a polite smile, and memorized who always bought which brand of cereal or how often they ran out of milk.
At the end of every shift, I counted my wages, setting aside a little each week without a clear purpose. It was more a habit than a plan.
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And then, in a single day, everything crumbled like a dry cookie between careless fingers.
“We’re making cuts, Adele,” my manager said. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t wait for a response. There was nothing to discuss. I took off my name tag and placed it on the counter.
I walked home silently, but as soon as I reached my apartment building, something felt off. The front door was unlocked, and a faint trace of unfamiliar female perfume lingered in the air.
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My boyfriend, Ethan, stood beside my suitcase in the living room.
“Oh, you’re home. We need to talk.”
“I am listening.”
“Adele, you’re a great person, really. But I feel like I’m… evolving. And you’re just… staying the same.”
“Oh, I see,” I muttered.
“I need someone who pushes me to be better,” he added, glancing toward the window.
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That “someone” was currently waiting outside in his car.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg. I picked up my suitcase and walked out. The city felt enormous, and suddenly, I had nowhere to go. Then my phone rang.
“I’m calling about Mr. Howard. I’m very sorry, but he has passed away.”
Mr. Howard. That’s what they called him. But to me, he was Dad. And just like that, my route was set.
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In half an hour, I bought a bus ticket and left the city behind, heading to the place where my childhood had been rewritten. Howard had never been my father by blood. He had been my father by choice.
When I was almost grown, after years of drifting through foster care, he and my adoptive mother took me in. I wasn’t a cute, wide-eyed toddler who would easily mold into a family. I was a teenager.
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But they loved me anyway. They taught me what home felt like. And finally, that home was gone. My mother had passed away a year ago. And then… my father had followed.
I was an orphan again.
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***
The funeral service was quiet. I stood in the back, too consumed by grief to acknowledge the sharp glances my adoptive sister, Synthia, kept throwing my way. She wasn’t happy I was еhere, but I didn’t care.
After the service, I went straight to the lawyer’s office, expecting nothing more than a few tools from Dad’s garage, something small to remember him by.
The lawyer unfolded the will.
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“As per the last testament of Mr. Howard, his residence, including all belongings within, is to be inherited by his biological daughter, Synthia Howard.”
Synthia smirked as if she had just won something she always knew was hers. Then, the lawyer continued.
“The apiary, including all its contents, is hereby granted to my other daughter Adele.”
“Excuse me?”
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“The beekeeping estate,” the lawyer repeated. “As per Mr. Howard’s request, Adele is to take ownership of the land, its hives, and any proceeds from future honey production. Furthermore, she has the right to reside on the property as long as she maintains and cares for the beekeeping operation.”
Synthia let out a short, bitter laugh.
“You’re joking.”
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“It’s all outlined in the document.” The lawyer held up the papers.
Synthia’s gaze sliced through me. “You? Taking care of bees? You don’t even know how to keep a houseplant alive, let alone an entire apiary.”
“It’s what Dad wanted,” I said finally, though my voice lacked conviction.
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“Fine. You want to stay? You can have your damn bees. But don’t think you’re moving into the house.”
“What?”
“The house is mine, Adele. You want to live on this property? Then you’ll take what you’ve been given.”
A slow dread crept into my stomach.
“And where exactly do you expect me to sleep?”
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“There’s a perfectly good barn out back. Consider it part of your new rustic lifestyle.”
I could have fought her. Could have argued. But I had nowhere else to go. I had lost my job. My life. My father. And even though I was supposed to have a place there, I was treated like a stranger.
“Fine.”
Synthia let out another laugh, standing up and grabbing her purse.
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“Well, I hope you like the smell of hay.”
That evening, I carried my bag toward the barn. The scent of dry hay and earth greeted me as I stepped inside. Somewhere outside, chickens clucked, settling in for the night.
The sounds of the farm surrounded me. I found a corner, dropped my bag, and sank onto the straw.
The tears came silently, hot streaks against my cheeks. I had nothing left. But I wasn’t going to leave. I was going to stay. I was going to fight.
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***
The nights were still cold, even as spring stretched its fingers across the land. So, in the morning, I walked into town and spent the last of my savings on a small tent. It wasn’t much, but it was mine.
When I arrived back at the estate, dragging the box behind me, Synthia was standing on the porch. She watched as I unpacked the metal rods and fabric, amusement dancing in her eyes.
“This is hilarious,” she said, leaning against the wooden railing. “You’re really doing this? Playing the rugged farm girl now?”
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I ignored her and continued setting up.
I remembered the camping trips I used to take with Dad: how he had shown me how to build a fire pit, set up a proper shelter, and store food safely outdoors. Those memories fueled me at that moment.
I gathered stones from the edge of the property and built a small fire ring. I set up a simple outdoor cooking area using an old iron grate I found in the barn. It wasn’t a house. But it was a home.
For illustration purposes only | Source: Midjourney
Synthia, watching the whole time, shook her head.
“Springtime camping is one thing, Adele. But what’s your plan when it gets colder?”
I didn’t take the bait. I had bigger things to worry about.
That afternoon, I met Greg, the beekeeper my father had worked with for years. I had been told he was the one who had maintained the apiary after Dad passed, but I hadn’t had the chance to meet him yet.
Greg was standing by the hives when I approached. He frowned when he saw me.
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“Oh, it’s you.”
“I need your help,” I said, straight to the point. “I want to learn how to keep the bees.”
Greg let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “You?”
He eyed me up and down, taking in my entire existence that screamed city girl.
“No offense, but do you even know how to approach a hive without getting stung to death?”
I straightened my shoulders. “Not yet. But I’m willing to learn.”
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“Yeah? And what makes you think you’ll last?”
I could feel Synthia’s voice echoing in my head, her constant sneers, her dismissive laughter.
“Because I don’t have a choice.”
Greg, to my surprise, let out a low chuckle.
“Alright, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
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Learning was harder than I had expected.
I had to get past my fear of the bees first—the way they swarmed, the low hum of their bodies vibrating through the air. The first time I put on the protective suit, my hands trembled so badly that Greg had to redo the straps for me.
“Relax,” Greg said. “They can sense fear.”
“Great. Just what I needed.”
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He laughed at that.
“If you don’t want them to sting you, don’t act like prey.”
Over the next few weeks, Greg taught me everything: how to install foundation sheets into the frames, inspect a hive without disturbing the colony, and spot the queen among thousands of identical bees.
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Some days, I was exhausted before noon. My body ached from carrying the heavy frames. I smelled like smoke and sweat and earth. And yet, I had a purpose.
That evening, the air smelled wrong.
I had just stepped onto the property, my arms full of groceries, when a sharp, acrid scent curled into my nostrils.
Smoke. Oh, no! My beehives…
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***
The fire was raging, orange tongues licking at the darkening sky. Flames crawled over the dry grass, consuming everything in their path.
My tent was in ruins, its fabric curling and melting under the heat. The fire had devoured everything inside—my clothes, bedding, the last remnants of what I had managed to build for myself.
But my eyes locked on the beehives.
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They were close to the flames, the thick smoke drifting in their direction. If the fire reached them…
No. I wouldn’t let that happen. I grabbed a bucket beside the well and ran toward the fire, but…
“Adele! Get back!”
Greg.
I turned to see him sprinting across the field. A second later, others followed—neighbors, local farmers, even the older man from the general store. They carried shovels, buckets, and anything they could find.
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I barely had time to process what was happening before they moved into action.
“Get the sand!” Greg barked.
And I realized some people were dragging heavy sacks of dry dirt from the barn. They tore them open and started smothering the fire, throwing sand over the flames, cutting off their air.
My lungs burned from the smoke, but I kept going. We worked together until the flames finally died.
I turned toward the house. Synthia stood on the balcony, watching.
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She hadn’t lifted a single finger to help. I turned away.
The beehives were safe. But my home was gone.
Greg approached, wiping the soot from his forehead. His gaze drifted toward the window where Synthia had stood just moments ago.
“Kid, you don’t have the safest neighborhood. I’d recommend harvesting that honey sooner rather than later.”
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We washed our hands, shook off the exhaustion, and, without another word, got to work.
I lifted the wooden frame from the hive, brushing off the few bees still crawling across the surface. The combs were full, golden, glistening in the soft evening light.
And then I saw it. A small, yellowed envelope was wedged between the wax panels. My breath caught. Carefully, I pulled it free and read the words scrawled across the front.
“For Adele.”
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I didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. Inside, folded neatly, was a second will. That was the actual will. I began to read.
“My dearest Adele,
If you are reading this, then you have done exactly what I hoped—you stayed. You fought. You proved, not to me, but to yourself, that you are stronger than anyone ever gave you credit for.
I wanted to leave you this home openly, but I knew I wouldn’t get the chance. Synthia would never allow it. She has always believed that blood is the only thing that makes a family. But you and I both know better.
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I didn’t have time to file this will officially, but I knew exactly where to place it—somewhere only you would find it. I hid it in the very thing she despises most, the one thing she would never touch. I knew that if you chose to stay and see this through, you would earn what was always meant to be yours.
Adele, this house was never just walls and a roof—it was a promise. A promise that you could always have a place where you belong.
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As my final wish, I leave you everything. The house, the land, the beekeeping estate—everything now belongs to you. Make it a home. Make it yours.
With all my love,
Dad”
The house had always been mine.
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That evening, when Greg and I finished harvesting the honey, I walked up the house’s front steps for the first time. Synthia sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea. I placed the will on the table in front of her.
“Where did you get this?” she asked after reading.
“Dad hid it in the beehives. He knew you’d try to take everything, so he ensured you wouldn’t find it.”
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For the first time since I arrived, she had nothing to say.
“You can stay,” I said, and she looked up at me, startled. “But we run this place together. We either learn to live like a family or don’t live here at all.”
Synthia scoffed, setting the will down. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
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Then, finally, she leaned back in her chair, exhaling a slow, tired laugh.
“Fine. But I’m not touching the damn bees.”
“Deal.”
The days passed, and life slowly took shape. I sold my first jars of honey, watching my hard work finally pay off. Synthia took care of the house, keeping it in order while I tended to the bees. And Greg became a friend, someone to sit with on the porch at sunset, sharing quiet moments and stories about the day.
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If you enjoyed this story, read this one: When I told my husband I was pregnant, he froze. When he saw the ultrasound, he panicked. The following day, he was gone—no calls, no trace. But I wasn’t about to just let him disappear. I needed answers… and payback.
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My Neighbor Installed a Toilet on My Lawn with a Note, ‘Flush Your Opinion Here,’ After I Asked Her Not to Sunbathe in Front of My Son’s Window
When I politely asked my neighbor to stop sunbathing in bikinis in front of my teenage son’s window, she retaliated by planting a filthy toilet on my lawn with a sign: “FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE!” I was livid, but karma delivered the perfect revenge.
I should’ve known trouble was brewing when Shannon moved in next door and immediately painted her house purple, then orange, and then blue. But I’m a firm believer in living and letting live. That was right up until she started hosting bikini sunbathing spectacles right outside my 15-year-old son’s window.
A woman lying on a lounger | Source: Pexels
“Mom!” my son Jake burst into the kitchen one morning, his face redder than the tomatoes I was slicing for lunch. “Can you… um… do something about that? Outside my window?”
I marched to his room and peered out the window. There was Shannon, sprawled out on a leopard-print lounger, wearing the tiniest bikinis that could generously be called dental floss with sequins.
“Just keep your blinds closed, honey,” I said, trying to sound casual while my mind raced.
A woman opening curtains | Source: Pexels
“But I can’t even open them to get fresh air anymore!” Jake slumped against the bed.
“This is so weird. Tommy came over to study yesterday, and he walked into my room and just froze. Like, mouth open, eyes bulging, full system shutdown. His mom probably won’t let him come back!”
I sighed, closing the blinds. “Has she been out there like that every day?”
“Every. Single. Day. Mom, I’m dying. I can’t live like this. I’m going to have to become a mole person and live in the basement. Do we have Wi-Fi down there?”
A teenage boy frowning | Source: Midjourney
After a week of watching my teenage son practically parkour around his room to avoid glimpsing our exhibitionist neighbor, I decided to have a friendly chat with Shannon.
I usually mind my own business when it comes to what people do in their yards, but Shannon’s idea of ‘sunbathing’ was more like a public performance.
She’d lounge around in the skimpiest of bikinis, sometimes even going topless, and there was no way to miss her every time we stood near Jake’s window.
A woman sunbathing | Source: Pexels
“Hey, Shannon,” I called out, aiming for that sweet spot between ‘friendly neighbor’ and ‘concerned parent’ tone of voice. “Got a minute?”
She lowered her oversized sunglasses, the ones that made her look like a bedazzled praying mantis. “Renee! Come to borrow some tanning oil? I just got this amazing coconut one. Makes you smell like a tropical vacation and poor life choices.”
“Actually, I wanted to talk about your sunbathing spot. See, it’s right in front of my son Jake’s window, and he’s 15, and—”
“Oh. My. God.” Shannon sat up, her face splitting into an unnervingly wide grin. “Are you seriously trying to police where I can get my vitamin D? In my own yard?”
A furious woman | Source: Midjourney
“That’s not what I—”
“Listen, sweetie,” she cut me off, examining her hot pink nails like they held the secrets to the universe. “If your kid can’t handle seeing a confident woman living her best life, maybe you should invest in better blinds. Or therapy. Or both. I know this amazing life coach who could help him overcome his repression. She specializes in aura cleansing and interpretive dance.”
“Shannon, please. I’m just asking if you could maybe move your chair literally anywhere else in your yard. You have two acres!”
A startled woman covering her mouth | Source: Pexels
“Hmm.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully, then reached for her phone. “Let me check my schedule. Oh, look at that! I’m booked solid with not caring about your opinion until… forever.”
I retreated, wondering if I’d somehow stumbled into an episode of “Neighbors Gone Wild.” But Shannon wasn’t done with me yet. Not by a long shot.
Two days later, I opened my front door to grab the newspaper and stopped dead in my tracks.
There, proudly displayed in the middle of my perfectly manicured lawn, was a toilet bowl. Not just any toilet. It was an old, filthy, tetanus-inducing throne, complete with a handwritten sign that read: “FLUSH YOUR OPINION HERE!”
I knew it was Shannon’s handiwork.
A toilet with a sign installed on the lawn | Source: Midjourney
“What do you think of my art installation?” her voice floated over from her yard. She was perched on her lounger, looking like a very smug, very underdressed cat.
“I call it ‘Modern Suburban Discourse.’ The local art gallery already wants to feature it in their ‘Found Objects’ exhibition!” she laughed.
“Are you kidding me?” I gestured at the porcelain monstrosity. “This is vandalism!”
A shocked woman | Source: Midjourney
“No, honey, this is self-expression. Like my sunbathing. But since you’re so interested in giving opinions about what people do on their property, I thought I’d give you a proper place to put them.”
I stood there on my lawn, staring at Shannon cackling like a hyena, and something inside me just clicked.
You know that moment when you realize you’re playing chess with a pigeon? The bird’s just going to knock over all the pieces, strut around like it won, and leave droppings everywhere. That was Shannon.
I crossed my arms and sighed. Sometimes the best revenge is just sitting back and watching karma do its thing.
A woman laughing | Source: Midjourney
The weeks that followed tested my patience. Shannon turned her yard into what I can only describe as a one-woman Woodstock. The sunbathing continued, now with an added commentary track.
she invited friends, and her parties rattled windows three houses down, complete with karaoke renditions of “I Will Survive” at 3 a.m. She even started a “meditation drum circle” that sounded more like a herd of caffeinated elephants learning to Riverdance.
Through it all, I smiled and waved. Because here’s the thing about people like Shannon — they’re so busy writing their own drama that they never see the plot twist coming.
And oh boy, what a twist it was.
People at a party | Source: Unsplash
It was a pleasant Saturday. I was baking cookies when I heard sirens. I stepped onto my porch just in time to see a fire truck screech to a halt in front of my house.
“Ma’am,” a firefighter approached me, looking confused. “We received a report about a sewage leak?”
Before I could respond, Shannon appeared, wearing a concerned citizen face that deserved an Oscar. “Yes, officer! That toilet over there… it’s a health hazard! I’ve seen things… terrible things… leaking! The children, won’t someone think of the children?”
A firefighter holding a fire extinguisher | Source: Pexels
The firefighter looked at the bone-dry decorative toilet, then at Shannon, then back at the toilet. His expression suggested he was questioning every life choice that led him to this moment.
“Ma’am, making false emergency reports is a crime. This is clearly a lawn ornament,” he paused, probably wondering why he had to say a phrase like that as part of his job.
“A dry lawn ornament. And I’m a firefighter, not a health inspector.”
A firefighter staring at someone | Source: Pexels
Shannon’s face fell faster than her sunscreen coverage rating. “But the aesthetic pollution! The visual contamination!”
“Ma’am, we don’t respond to aesthetic emergencies, and pranks are definitely not something we respond to.”
With that, the firefighters left the property, but karma wasn’t finished with Shannon. Not by a long shot.
An angry woman gritting her teeth | Source: Midjourney
The fire truck drama barely slowed her down. If anything, it inspired her to reach new heights. Literally.
One scorching afternoon, I spotted Shannon hauling her leopard-print lounger up a ladder to her garage roof. And there she was, perched up high like some sort of sunbathing gargoyle, armed with a reflective tanning sheet and what looked like an industrial-sized margarita.
I was in my kitchen, elbow-deep in dinner dishes, and wondering if this was the universe’s way of testing my blood pressure when the sound of chaos erupted outside.
Close-up of a woman sunbathing | Source: Pexels
I heard a splash and a screech that sounded like a cat in a washing machine. I rushed outside to find Shannon face-down in her prized petunias, covered from head to toe in mud.
Turned out that her new rooftop sunbathing spot had met its match — her malfunctioning sprinkler system.
Our neighbor, Mrs. Peterson, dropped her gardening shears. “Good Lord! Shannon, are you trying to recreate Baywatch? Because I think you missed the beach part. And the running part. And the… well… every part.”
Shannon scrambled up, caked in mud. Her designer bikini was now accessorized with grass stains and what appeared to be a very surprised earthworm.
A shocked woman with mud on her face | Source: Midjourney
Following the incident, Shannon was as quiet as a church mouse. She stopped sunbathing in front of Jake’s window, and the dirty toilet bowl on my lawn disappeared faster than a magician’s rabbit.
Shannon invested in a privacy fence around her backyard, and our long suburban nightmare was over.
“Mom,” Jake said at breakfast the next morning, cautiously raising his blinds, “is it safe to come out of witness protection now?”
I smiled, sliding him a plate of pancakes. “Yeah, honey. I think the show’s been canceled. Permanently.”
A teenage boy smiling | Source: Midjourney
“Thank god,” he muttered, then grinned. “Though I kind of miss the toilet. It was weirdly starting to grow on me. Like a really ugly lawn gnome.”
“Don’t even joke about that. Eat your pancakes before she decides to install a whole bathroom set!” I said, sharing a hearty laugh with my son as we looked at the wall around Shannon’s yard.
Window view of an empty yard | Source: Pexels
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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