What's for me, is for me!

 The Turner family had always called Biche home. Their sprawling land stretched as far as the eye could see, rich with rows of tomatoes, corn, lettuce, and peppers that danced in the sunlight. At the heart of it all was their small country roadside vegetable shop on the Manzanilla stretch, an old wooden structure with a hand-painted sign.

The shop wasn’t much, but it was everything to them. Mrs. Turner would set out the day’s pickings each morning, carefully arranging the vegetables in neat, colorful piles. Mr. Turner tended to the farm, whistling cheerful tunes as he moved among the rows. Their teenage son, Ellis, was the friendly face behind the counter, always ready with a joke or story for the customers who stopped by.

The Turners didn’t need much to be happy. Their fields yielded enough to sustain them, and the roadside shop brought in a steady stream of locals and travelers alike. Some came for the fresh produce, others for the conversations. The shop had a way of turning strangers into friends.

One evening, a sleek black car pulled up to the shop, a rarity on the dusty country road. A sharply dressed man stepped out, glancing around before approaching Ellis at the counter.

“Is your father here?” he asked, flashing a business card. “I have a proposition.”

The man spoke of development — of plans to turn their fertile land into a sprawling residential neighborhood. He painted a picture of wealth and comfort, promising the Turners a life far beyond the modest one they knew.

When Mr. Turner heard the offer, he only smiled and said, “This land has been with our family for generations. It’s not just dirt and plants — it’s memories, joy, and hard work. This is our way of life.”

The man didn’t understand. How could they turn down such an offer? Why choose hard work over luxury?

But the Turners didn’t see it that way. The land was where Ellis learned to plant his first seeds, where neighbors gathered for harvest festivals, and where Mrs. Turner shared her stories while selling vegetables. Their little shop wasn’t just about produce; it was a symbol of the bond they shared with each other and their community.

As the man drove away, the Turners returned to their tasks, unfazed by what they had refused. That evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, customers arrived as they always did — smiling, chatting, and leaving with bags full of farm-fresh goodness. To the Turners, prosperity wasn’t measured in material wealth but in shared laughter, in the joy of living close to the land, and in the simple contentment of doing what they loved. They had all they needed, and that was more than enough.