Living with my son and his wife was never part of the plan. But when my “bad leg” conveniently acted up (fine, maybe I milked it a little), Kate had no choice but to let me stay.
From the moment I arrived, it was clear she resented me. The way she butchered the pie crust? Unforgivable. The haphazard leaf-raking? A crime against gardening. Naturally, I had to step in.
“You’re doing it wrong,” I said sweetly, leaning on my cane for effect.
Kate’s eye twitched. “Your leg seems fine when you’re criticizing me.”
Touché.
Then there was Mr. Davis, the neighbor who communicated mostly in grunts. Kate swore he was harmless, but I knew a lost cause when I saw one—until he asked me to dinner.
“Miss Miller,” he muttered (after I corrected him twice), “would you… eat with me?”
I expected awkward silence. Instead, I got slow dancing to a jazz record he claimed was broken. And when he kissed me? Let’s just say my cane wasn’t the only thing trembling.
For weeks, we were inseparable. I forgot to nitpick Kate’s cleaning. I even smiled when she burned dinner. Peter made everything… lighter.
Then Thanksgiving happened.
I caught them in the kitchen—Kate thanking Peter for “playing along,” Andrew grinning like a fool.
“The record player’s coming,” Kate said. “You’ve been a lifesaver.”
Record player?
I exploded. “You manipulated us?!”
Andrew shrugged. “You were driving Kate nuts. We thought you needed a hobby.”
Peter stepped forward, his voice rough. “I told them to keep the damn record player. I stayed because I wanted to.”
I glared. “You lied.”
“No,” he said softly. “I fell in love.”
And just like that, my anger melted.
Now? Peter and I host weekly jazz nights. Kate’s thrilled I’m out of her hair. And Andrew? Well, let’s just say he’s learned not to meddle in his mother’s love life.
