The Riddle of Seasons

Margaret sat on her porch, peeling an orange with hands that had seen seventy-five winters. The citrus scent transported her back to her grandfather's farm, where old Bull—the most stubborn creature in the county—had once trapped her against the barn wall for three hours. She'd been twelve, terrified, yet somehow that afternoon taught her more about patience than any lecture ever could.

Now her granddaughter Chloe sat beside her, the girl's phone lighting up with messages from friends. Margaret smiled, remembering how she'd once been just as restless.

"Gran, tell me about the riddle again," Chloe asked, finally setting the phone down.

"Ah, the sphinx's riddle." Margaret divided the orange between them. "What walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening?"

Chloe rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Man. Crawling as a baby, walking as an adult, leaning on a cane in old age."

"But here's what the old stories don't tell you." Margaret's voice softened. "That afternoon with Bull, I wasn't thinking about riddles. I was thinking about how my legs trembled—four legs' worth of fear. Then my grandfather came, his own legs bowed from decades of farm work, and he offered me his arm—three legs between us. We walked away together."

She took her granddaughter's hand. "The riddle's not about the stages of life, Chloe. It's about who walks beside you through them. That stubborn bull taught me that fear makes you small, but love makes you stronger together."

Chloe squeezed her hand, the orange sticky between their palms.

"What will you remember from this summer?" Margaret asked gently.

"This moment," the girl said. "And the riddle."

Margaret smiled. In the end, we're all sphinxes—guardians of our own riddles, waiting to pass them down.