The Treasure in the Garden: A Family Tale in Willowbrook
Margaret Wilson had just finished tidying the house. It was time to set the table. Yesterday, she had made a hearty vegetable soup—simply delicious! Suddenly, a loud shout came from outside. She nearly dropped the ladle, her heart skipping a beat.
“Nana! Grandad! Come quick, I found something!” called their grandson, Oliver.
Margaret and Harold hurried into the garden.
“Grandad, look!” Oliver held something in his hand, beaming with excitement.
But Margaret was struck by something else. “Oliver, when did you dig up the vegetable patch?” she gasped, staring at the neatly turned soil.
“I put in the effort,” the boy replied proudly. “But look what I found!”
Harold glanced at the object in his grandson’s hand and froze, hardly believing his eyes.
Earlier that morning, Margaret had been on the phone with her daughter. Hanging up, she called out to her husband, “Harry, they’re bringing Oliver over!”
Harold looked up from his laptop, where he’d been playing solitaire, and frowned. “Which grandson?”
They had three. The eldest, James, was already twenty and had finished college. Their granddaughter, Emily, had just left school and was preparing to study psychology. Her parents couldn’t stop praising her—determined, always studying. She certainly wouldn’t be visiting.
“Honestly, Harry, don’t play dumb!” Margaret huffed. “Who’s the lazy one? The other two turned out fine, but Oliver? He barely scraped through Year 6 with three C’s—what a disgrace! And here you are, playing cards instead of helping!”
“What can I do? Every man is the architect of his own fortune!” Harold grumbled, repeating his favourite saying.
“That may be, but we’ll see what kind of architect he is when he gets here,” Margaret declared.
“You shouldn’t have agreed,” Harold muttered. “He’s spoiled, disobedient. The youngest, always indulged. What’s he going to do here? Stare at his phone while you wait on him? Kids his age eat like horses!”
With clear reluctance, Harold shut his laptop. “Fine, I’ll go dig your vegetable patch—how’s that?”
“Oh, please, that tiny patch for herbs and carrots!” Margaret laughed. “And why is it *my* patch? He’s *our* grandson, and he’s *our* responsibility!”
“I haven’t forgotten anything!” Harold scowled. “But you seem to have forgotten what you were like at his age. His own parents can’t handle him—what chance do we have?”
“They took his phone, by the way,” Margaret added.
“Well, that’s just marvellous!” Harold groaned and stomped outside.
Margaret started preparing lunch. Suddenly, the front door burst open—her husband had returned.
“Back so soon?” she asked, sweeping chopped vegetables into the simmering chicken broth.
“It’s pouring rain, Maggie! Look out the window!” Harold said, clearly relieved that his back ached and he wouldn’t have to dig in the downpour. “We’ll buy whatever we need.”
“Like your mother used to say: ‘A little rain is a lazy man’s excuse,’” Margaret smiled.
“Who’s lazy?” Harold spluttered. “You’re calling *me* lazy? Really, Maggie!”
“Oh, stop grumbling! Fetch the spare blanket and pillow—Oliver will be here soon!”
Harold spent the rest of the evening muttering. “Why couldn’t Oliver stay with his parents? They’ve saddled us with a trial in our old age! We’ve done our bit!”
The next morning, a car pulled up to their home in Willowbrook. Out stepped Oliver—sulky, arms crossed. He managed a brief smile for his grandparents before scowling again. “What am I even supposed to do here?”
“Exactly, there’s nothing to do—that’s what I keep saying,” Harold mumbled under his breath.
Oliver caught it. “You’re not happy to see me?”
“What’s there to be happy about? You look miserable, and you’ll just be trouble!”
“Mum, did you hear what Grandad said?” Oliver turned, but his mother, Helen, cut in.
“Dad, Mum, don’t mind him—he’s always grumbling at this age. Right, I’m off. I’ll fetch Oliver later, and we’ll catch up. Mum, here’s his phone—only give it if he’s unbearable. And don’t worry, you’ll have to repeat everything a hundred times. Kids these days are hopeless,” Helen whispered before driving off.
“No one cares about us,” Harold grumbled. “Dumped the boy and dashed off.”
“They’re always like that, never have time,” Oliver sighed, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and trudging inside.
“Harry, could you at least dig the vegetable patch today?” Margaret asked. “Otherwise, I won’t get anything planted.”
“Oh, give it a rest, Maggie! My back’s killing me—you want me bedridden? You won’t find another treasure out there. Ask the boy—he’s young, got plenty of energy!” Harold snapped.
“What treasure, Grandad?” Oliver poked his head out of the room.
“Suddenly he can hear!” Margaret laughed. “Well, your grandad once found an old box while digging.”
“What was in it?”
“Curious, are you? I’ll show you later.”
“Nana, where should I dig? I’ve got nothing better to do,” Oliver offered.
“The spade’s in the shed. Three patches behind the house—take your pick,” Margaret nodded.
Oliver shot off like a rocket.
“Off to hunt for treasure,” she chuckled. “Should we plant something for him to find?”
“I’ve got better things to do! He’ll take two swings and give up—lazy through and through!” Harold waved her off.
“Oh, coming from you!” Margaret shook her head.
Oliver toiled in the garden for over an hour. Offended at being called lazy, Harold busied himself in the shed. Margaret cleaned the house and started lunch. Yesterday’s soup smelled irresistible.
Then Helen called. “Mum, I forgot to say—Oliver’s so fussy now. Won’t touch soup, lives on pizza and sandwiches. I brought groceries—don’t stress over him.”
“Don’t you worry, love. If Oliver’s with us, we’ll manage,” Margaret reassured her.
Just as she hung up, a shout came from outside.
“Nana! Grandad! I found something—come quick!”
“Did Harry actually plant something?” Margaret wondered. But seeing Harold’s stunned face, she doubted it. They rushed outside.
“Grandad, look!” Oliver held something up, eyes shining.
But Margaret gasped at something else. “Oliver, you dug up the whole patch?! Harry, look how strong our grandson is—not everyone could do that!”
Oliver glowed under the praise. “I tried, Nana. Grandad’s back hurts. But look what I found! It’s practically treasure!”
Harold stared. “Wait—that’s my wallet! The one I lost last year!” he exclaimed. “Oliver, you’re a marvel! Dug the patch *and* found my missing wallet! All because your nana nags me—off to the shops, dig the garden. Next thing, my wallet’s gone—half my pension in there! Cheers, Oliver!”
At lunch, to everyone’s surprise, Oliver devoured the soup and even asked for seconds. Hard work builds an appetite! Afterwards, he joined Harold in the shed to sort tools.
“This box is what we found years ago,” Harold showed his grandson. “Old coins and letters inside.”
“Wow, Grandad!” Oliver gazed at him in awe.
Together, they tidied the shed. They found James’s old bicycle—perfect condition, just needed air in the tyres. And when their neighbour’s grandson, Thomas, arrived—an old friend of Oliver’s—life got even busier. Now, it was hard to get Oliver indoors unless he was helping with something.
Turns out, Oliver loved helping—and praise spurred him on. “Mum and Dad are always too busy—they brush me off. But it’s so nice here! Can I stay longer?” he asked when it was time to leave.
“Of course!” Harold boomed. “With a grandson like you, my back doesn’t even ache! Who said Oliver was lazy? He’s a fine lad—reminds me of myself!”
When Helen came to collect him, she was amazed. “Mum, he’s grown up so much! What did you do?”
“Nothing special. We just lived properly—did things together,” Margaret said. “And, incidentally, he barely touched his phone—it’s still on the sideboard. You were too hard on him.”
Now, Oliver visits his grandparents whenever he can. With them, he feels interesting, useful—like a hero. Even Harold says that with such a helper, nothing troubles him. Because everyone—even a twelve-year-old boy—wants to feel needed.
