Living with my son Andrew and his quick-tempered wife Kate was far from the relaxing retirement plan I had imagined. My mildly exaggerated leg injury was the only reason Kate reluctantly agreed to let me move in, but it was obvious she wasn’t exactly thrilled with the arrangement. One brisk fall morning, I stepped out onto the porch and saw Kate awkwardly wrangling a rake in the yard.

I couldn’t help myself. “Kate, you’re doing it all wrong!” I called out, loud enough to be heard. She didn’t acknowledge me, so I hobbled over, leaning heavily for effect. “Start with smaller piles before you combine them, or you’re just spinning your wheels,” I advised. She stopped and leaned on the rake, her voice flat. “I thought your leg was hurt. Maybe it’s time for you to go back home?” Offended, I clutched my leg and replied dramatically, “I’m trying to help you, despite the pain, and this is the thanks I get?” She just sighed, put a hand on her growing belly, muttered something about stress, and went back to raking. Meanwhile, their cranky neighbor, Mr. Davis, appeared across the yard. “Good afternoon, Mr. Davis!” I chirped brightly.

He grunted and disappeared back inside. Just like Kate, I thought—grumpy and ungrateful. Back inside, I noticed yet another layer of dust on the furniture. With Kate on maternity leave, I wondered why she couldn’t keep the place cleaner for Andrew’s sake. When she started dinner, I offered some tips, which she promptly ignored before coldly saying, “Please, just leave the kitchen.” That evening, I overheard Andrew and Kate talking in low voices. “We talked about this,” Andrew said. “It’ll be good for everyone.” Kate sounded worn out. “I know, but it’s not easy.” Curious, I peeked around the corner and saw Andrew comforting her. It irritated me how easily she painted herself as the stressed-out victim while I was the one walking on eggshells. At dinner, I mentioned her pie was undercooked. Kate, surprisingly composed, suggested, “Why don’t you bake one yourself and bring it to Mr. Davis?” I scoffed. “That grump? He barely acknowledges me.” “He’s not so bad,” she said with a little smirk. “And I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” I dismissed it as nonsense, but something about the way she said it stuck with me. The next morning, to my shock, Mr. Davis actually approached me in the yard.

“Margaret,” he began, awkwardly, “would you… have dinner with me?” I raised an eyebrow and crossed my arms. “It’s Miss Miller to you.” He straightened. “Alright, Miss Miller. Would you allow me to take you to dinner?” I agreed out of sheer curiosity, and that evening, I found myself standing on his doorstep, heart unexpectedly fluttering. Dinner was uneventful until I mentioned jazz music. His whole demeanor softened. “I’d play you my favorite record,” he said, “but my record player’s broken.” I surprised myself by replying, “You don’t need music to dance.” We swayed in the soft glow of his lamp as he hummed, and for the first time in years, I didn’t feel lonely. Peter, as he asked me to call him, quickly became the best part of my days. We laughed, read, cooked—it was a joy I hadn’t felt in ages. Kate’s passive-aggressive comments rolled right off me.

I was too busy enjoying Peter’s company. When Thanksgiving rolled around, I invited him to join us. I didn’t want him spending the holiday alone. But then I noticed him talking with Kate in the kitchen. Curious, I eavesdropped. “The record player will be here soon. Thanks for helping me make this easier,” Peter said. Kate replied, “You’ve no idea how much I appreciate this.” My stomach dropped. I barged into the room. “So this was all a setup?” I demanded. They froze. Kate started, “It’s not what you think—” but I cut her off. Andrew walked in as I pressed for answers. “Mom,” he said gently, “we meant well. It was my idea too. You and Peter were clearly good for each other, but neither of you would’ve taken the first step. The record player was just a little push.” Furious, I turned to Peter. “I expected this from her, but not you.” He looked at me, calm and steady. “At first, yes, it was about the record player. But Margaret, you brought me back to life. I didn’t fall for you because of a favor—I fell for who you are.” My anger softened, but I still needed more. “Why should I trust you?” I asked. “Because I love you,” he said. “All of you—bossy, particular, caring—you.” His sincerity was undeniable. Slowly, I nodded. “Alright, but the record player stays with us. We’ll need it for dancing.” He laughed, relief washing over his face. From that day forward, Peter and I were inseparable. Thanksgiving became our favorite holiday, one filled with jazz, laughter, and a love that only grew stronger with every song we shared.