Living with my son Andrew and his blunt wife Kate wasn’t what I’d hoped. After exaggerating a leg injury, I moved in, only to be met with tension—Kate clearly wasn’t thrilled. I criticized her yard work, her housekeeping, even her cooking. She returned my attitude with coldness, but one night, after I insulted her pie, she surprised me: “Why not bake one for Mr. Davis? I’ve seen how he looks at you.” To my shock, Mr. Davis, our grumpy neighbor, later asked me to dinner. I agreed, curious. That evening, something unexpected happened—we connected.
I shared my love of jazz, and we danced to nothing but his humming. For the first time in years, I felt alive. Peter (as he asked me to call him) became a bright spot in my life. I invited him for Thanksgiving, but overheard him thank Kate for helping him get a new record player.
