When Karen and I returned early from vacation due to her stomach bug, the last thing we expected was a huge hole in our backyard. Ready to call the cops, I hesitated upon seeing a shovel at the bottom. Someone had planned on returning.
“Let’s park in the garage,” I told Karen. “Make it look like we’re still gone.”
That night, I spotted a shadowy figure jump over the fence and creep towards the hole. It was George, the previous owner of our house.
“Frank?” he exclaimed, shocked.
“I live here. What are you doing?”
He confessed his grandfather had hidden something valuable on the property. Desperate, he proposed we split any treasure fifty-fifty. Against my better judgment, I agreed.
We spent hours digging and sharing stories. George’s wife was battling cancer, and he had lost his job. His hope for the treasure was palpable. Despite our efforts, we found nothing but rocks.
By dawn, defeated, we drove to George’s house. His wife, Margaret, greeted us with worry and embarrassment. Apologizing profusely, she assured me they’d pay for the yard repairs.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, thinking about the potential for a new pool. George thanked me, and we parted as friends, promising to meet again.
Back home, Karen was confused but intrigued by my tale. I suggested inviting George and Margaret over for dinner. She smiled, “First, fix the yard.”
Life might lack buried treasure, but it’s filled with unexpected adventures and newfound friendships. Sometimes, that’s treasure enough.
