Living with my son Andrew and his outspoken wife Kate was not exactly the peaceful setup I had envisioned for my later years. My conveniently exaggerated leg injury had cornered Kate into reluctantly agreeing to let me stay with them, but it was clear she wasn’t exactly thrilled about it. One chilly autumn morning, I spotted Kate in the yard, struggling awkwardly with a rake.

I couldn’t help myself and called out, “Kate, you’re doing it all wrong!” She didn’t even turn to acknowledge me, so I limped over for effect and added, “You need to start with small piles first or you’ll just be wasting your time.” She stopped, leaned on the rake, and shot back, “I thought your leg hurt. Maybe it’s time for you to go home?” I gasped in mock pain, clutching my leg. “I’m trying to help you despite the discomfort, and this is how you respond?” She turned away, hand on her pregnant belly, muttering about stress. Just then, their perpetually grumpy neighbor, Mr. Davis, shuffled into view. I chirped, “Good afternoon, Mr. Davis!” He grunted and disappeared inside. Miserable, I thought, just like Kate. Inside, I noticed more dust gathering on the furniture. With Kate home on maternity leave, I wondered why she wasn’t keeping the place more orderly for Andrew.

Later, when she was prepping dinner, I offered her some tips. She cut me off coldly, saying, “Please, just leave the kitchen.” That evening, I overheard Andrew and Kate talking in hushed tones. “We talked about this,” Andrew said. “It’ll help everyone.” Kate sighed, “I know, but it’s harder than you think.” Peeking around the corner, I saw Andrew gently embracing her. It frustrated me that she played the victim when I was the one dealing with her moods. At dinner, I couldn’t resist pointing out her pie was undercooked. Surprisingly, Kate suggested, “Why don’t you bake a pie yourself and bring it to Mr. Davis?” I scoffed.

“That grouch? He doesn’t even speak to me.” She smirked and said, “He’s not so bad. I’ve seen how he looks at you.” I laughed it off but couldn’t shake the feeling her comment held some truth. The next morning, to my surprise, Mr. Davis actually came to the yard and awkwardly asked, “Margaret, would you… have dinner with me?” I crossed my arms and corrected him, “It’s Miss Miller to you.” “Alright, Miss Miller,” he said, “would you let me take you to dinner?” I agreed, curious more than anything. That evening, I stood at his doorstep, nervous but intrigued.

Dinner was quiet until I mentioned my love for jazz. His face softened, and he said he’d play me his favorite record if only his player wasn’t broken. “You don’t need music to dance,” I said. We danced slowly in the dim light as he hummed, and for the first time in years, I didn’t feel alone. Peter, as he asked me to call him, became the highlight of my days. We laughed, read, and cooked together. I felt lighter, happier. Kate’s digs no longer fazed me—my world revolved around Peter. For Thanksgiving, I invited him over. I didn’t want him to be alone. But as I passed the kitchen, I overheard him talking to Kate. “The record player will be here soon. Thanks for making this easier,” he said. “You’ve no idea how much I appreciate this,” Kate replied. My heart dropped. I stormed in. “So, this was all a game?” They froze. Kate tried to explain, but I demanded answers. Andrew arrived just in time. “Mom, we meant no harm. It was my idea too. We thought you and Peter could be good for each other, but neither of you would make the first move. The record player was just a nudge.” I turned to Peter. “I expected this from her, not you.” He stepped forward. “At first, it was about the record player. But Margaret, you’ve changed me. You made me feel alive again. I didn’t fall for you because of a plan—I fell for you because of who you are.” I wasn’t ready to forgive him easily. “Why should I believe you?” I asked. “Because I love you,” he replied. “All of you—bossy, meticulous, and caring.” His words melted my defenses. I nodded slowly. “Alright, but the record player stays with us. We’ll need it for our music.” He laughed with relief. From that day forward, Peter and I were inseparable. Thanksgiving became our favorite holiday, a celebration of jazz, laughter, and a love that caught us both by surprise.