Living with my son Andrew and his sharp-tongued wife, Kate, was nothing like the peaceful arrangement I had imagined. My slightly exaggerated leg injury had forced Kate to reluctantly agree to my stay, though it was clear she wasn’t thrilled about it.

One crisp autumn morning, I stepped onto the porch and saw Kate struggling with a rake in the yard. Watching her awkward attempts, I couldn’t hold back. “Kate, you’re doing it all wrong!” I called out. She didn’t even glance at me. Assuming she hadn’t heard, I hobbled closer for dramatic effect. “You need to start with small piles before combining them, or else you’re just wasting time.”

Kate stopped abruptly, leaning on the rake. “I thought your leg hurt,” she said flatly, narrowing her eyes. “Maybe it’s time for you to go home?”

I clutched my leg indignantly. “I’m trying to help you despite my pain, and this is the thanks I get?” Kate sighed, placing a protective hand over her growing belly, muttering something about stress as she returned to her work.

Across the yard, their perpetually grumpy neighbor, Mr. Davis, shuffled into view. “Good afternoon, Mr. Davis!” I chirped. He grunted something unintelligible and disappeared back inside. Miserable, I thought, just like Kate.

Back inside, I noticed another layer of dust on the furniture. With Kate on maternity leave, I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t making more of an effort to keep the place spotless for Andrew. Later, when she started making dinner, I offered her some advice. Instead of appreciating my tips, she turned to me coldly and said, “Please, just leave the kitchen.”

That evening, I overheard a hushed conversation between Andrew and Kate. “We talked about this,” Andrew said. “It’ll be good for everyone.” Kate sighed. “I know, but it’s harder than you think.” Curious, I peeked around the corner and saw Andrew wrapping his arms around her protectively. It irked me that she played the victim when I was the one making all the compromises.

At dinner, I couldn’t resist pointing out that her pie was undercooked. To my surprise, Kate suggested, “Why don’t you bake a pie yourself and take it to Mr. Davis?” I scoffed. “That grump? He doesn’t even greet me.”

“He’s not so bad,” Kate said, a sly smile creeping onto her face. “Besides, I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

I laughed it off, dismissing her comment as nonsense. But something about her tone stuck with me.

The next morning, to my shock, Mr. Davis showed up in the yard. “Margaret,” he began awkwardly, “would you… have dinner with me?”

I raised an eyebrow. “It’s Miss Miller to you.”

“Alright, Miss Miller,” he corrected himself, his tone stiff. “Would you allow me to take you to dinner?”

I agreed, mostly out of curiosity, and by seven o’clock, I was standing at his door, my heart unexpectedly fluttering. Dinner was uneventful until I mentioned my love for jazz. His demeanor softened. “I’d play my favorite record for you,” he said, “but my record player’s broken.”

“You don’t need music to dance,” I replied, surprising myself. We swayed in the dim light as he hummed an old tune, and for the first time in years, I didn’t feel so alone.

Peter—he insisted I call him that—quickly became a bright spot in my days. We spent hours laughing, reading, and cooking together. I felt lighter, happier. Kate’s remarks no longer got under my skin. My world now revolved around Peter.

On Thanksgiving, I invited him to join us, not wanting him to spend the holiday alone. But when I saw him quietly speaking with Kate in the kitchen, my curiosity got the best of me. I overheard Peter thanking her. “The record player will be here soon. Thank you for making this easier,” he said.

Kate replied with a hint of relief, “You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

My heart sank. “So, this was all a setup?” I burst into the room. They both froze. Kate stammered, “It’s not what you think—”

“Then explain,” I demanded.

Andrew arrived just in time to hear the commotion. “Mom, we meant no harm,” he said. “It was my idea too. We thought you and Peter might be good for each other, but neither of you would have made the first move. The record player was just a nudge.”

Fuming, I glared at Peter. “I expected this from her, but not from you.”

Peter stepped forward, his voice steady. “At first, it was about the record player. But Margaret, you’ve changed me. You made me feel alive again. I fell for you—not because of some scheme but because of who you are.”

His words softened the edges of my anger, but I wasn’t ready to forgive so easily. “Why should I believe you?” I asked.

“Because I love you,” he said simply. “All of you—bossy, meticulous, and caring.”

The sincerity in his voice broke through my defenses. I nodded slowly. “Alright,” I said, “but the record player stays with us. We’ll need it for our music.”

Peter laughed, and relief washed over his face.

From that day on, Peter and I were inseparable. Thanksgiving became our favorite holiday, celebrated each year with music and memories, as our love grew stronger with every tune.