Dear Daughter, It didn’t start with a plan. It started with a pattern. We kept returning—to the bee yard, to the quiet. Sometimes in the early morning, when the light was soft and the bees were slow. Sometimes in the evening, when the air held the last warmth of the day and the hive pulsed with golden movement. Sometimes as a family, sometimes just the two of us. No agenda. Just arrival. We’d sit. Watch. Listen. The bees worked. You played. You’d find a patch of soil, disturb it gently with your hands, then soften it with care. You’d pull the last blooms from the woolly butterfly bush—those faded purple tufts—and mix them into the dirt like ingredients in a sacred recipe. When I asked what you were doing, you said it plainly: “I’m making the soil nice for the plants.” You’d grab a stick, stir the little hole you’d made, add random leaves, bits of stem, whatever the yard offered. It wasn’t gardening. It wasn’t pretend. It was something older. A child’s version of stewardship. A ri...