Life with my son Andrew and his sharp-tongued wife Kate was far from the peaceful arrangement I had imagined.
My slightly dramatised leg injury had reluctantly forced Kate to agree to this arrangement, although I could tell she wasn’t thrilled.
One crisp autumn morning, I stepped out onto the porch and saw Kate fiddling with a rake in the yard. Watching her clumsy attempts, I couldn’t help myself.
‘Kate, you’re doing it all wrong!’ exclaimed I. She didn’t even look in my direction. Assuming she hadn’t heard, I moved closer for the empty effect.
‘You need to start with small piles and then combine them, otherwise you’re wasting time.’
Kate stopped abruptly, leaning on the rake. ‘I thought your leg hurt,’ she said sharply, narrowing her eyes. ‘Maybe you should go home.’
I grabbed my leg indignantly. ‘I’m trying to help you despite the pain, and this is the thanks I get?’ Kate sighed, placing a protective hand on her growing belly, and muttered something about stress, returning to her work.
Across the yard, their perpetually grumpy neighbour, Mr Davis, showed up. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Davis!’ I chirped. He grunted something unintelligible and disappeared into the house. Sullen, I thought, just like Kate.
Back in the house, I noticed another layer of dust on the furniture. Since Kate is on maternity leave, I wondered why she couldn’t put more effort into tidying up the house for Andrew. Later, as Kate began to prepare dinner, I offered her some advice. Instead of appreciating my advice, she turned to me and coldly said: ‘Please just get out of the kitchen.’
That evening, when Andrew came home, I overheard their quiet conversation. ‘We’ve been talking about this,’ Andrew said. ‘It’ll do everyone good.’ Kate sighed tiredly. ‘I know, but it’s harder than you think.’ Curiously, I peeked out from around the corner and saw Andrew comforting her, wrapping his arms protectively around her. It annoyed me that she was playing the victim while I was the one adjusting to her mood.
At dinner, I couldn’t resist noticing that her pie was undercooked. Kate surprised me by suddenly suggesting: ‘Why don’t you bake the pie yourself and take it to Mr Davies?’ I snorted derisively. ‘That grumpy guy? He won’t even say hello to me.’
‘He’s not that bad,’ Kate said, and a sly smile played across her face. ‘Besides, I’ve seen the way he looks at you.’ I laughed, calling it nonsense. But something in her tone still struck me.
The next morning, to my shock, Mr Davies appeared in the yard. ‘Margaret,’ he began awkwardly, ’would you mind…having dinner with me?’ I raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s Miss Miller for you,’ I replied, crossing my arms. ‘Okay, Miss Miller,’ he corrected himself, his tone becoming hard. ‘Would you allow me to take you to dinner?’
I allowed it, mostly out of curiosity, and by seven o’clock I was standing at his door with an unexpectedly fluttering heart. Dinner passed without incident until I mentioned my love of jazz and his demeanour softened. ‘I’d put on my favourite record for you,’ he said, ’but my record player is broken. ‘You don’t need music to dance,’ I replied, surprising myself. We swayed in the dim light while he hummed an old tune, and for the first time in years I didn’t feel so alone.
Peter, as he asked me to call him, 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 bothered me. My world revolved around Peter.
At Thanksgiving, I’d invited him to join us, not wanting him to spend the day alone. But when I saw him talking quietly with Kate in the kitchen, my curiosity took over. I heard Peter thank her. ‘The turntable will be here soon. Thanks for making it easy for me,’ he said. Kate replied with a note of relief, ‘You have no idea how grateful I am.’
My heart dropped. ‘So this was all a game?’ I burst into the room. They both froze. Kate stuttered, ‘It’s not what you think…’ but I cut her short. ‘Explain it now.’
Andrew appeared just in time to hear the commotion. ‘Mum, we didn’t mean any harm,’ he began. ‘It was my idea, too. We thought you and Peter were right for each other, but neither of you would make the first move. The turntable was just a push.’
Infuriated, I stared at Peter. ‘I expected that from her, but not from you.’ Peter pitched forward, his voice flat. ‘At first it was all about the turntable. But Margaret, you changed me. You made me feel alive again. I fell in love with you-not because of any persuasion, 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. I asked. ‘Because I love you,’ he answered simply. ‘All of you – bossy, meticulous, and caring.’
The sincerity in his voice broke through my defences. I nodded slowly. ‘Okay,’ I said, ’but the record player stays with us. We’ll need it for music.’ Peter laughed, and a look of relief spread across his face.
From that day on, Peter and I were inseparable. Thanksgiving became our favourite holiday, celebrated each year with music and memories, and our love grew stronger with each tune.
