Living with my son Andrew and his unbearable wife, Kate, was nothing like the peaceful arrangement I’d imagined. My slightly exaggerated leg injury had forced her reluctant agreement, and for two weeks I made sure my presence was felt. Kate was seven months pregnant, exhausted, and clearly unimpressed by my “helpful” advice. Every suggestion I offered—about cleaning, cooking, even raking leaves—was met with irritation. I told myself I was only trying to help, but the tension in that house grew thicker by the day.
Next door lived Mr. Davis, their grumpy, unsociable neighbor. He barely spoke, scowled at everyone, and reminded me far too much of Kate. So when he unexpectedly asked me to dinner, I was stunned. Curious—and admittedly flattered—I agreed. That evening, behind his stern exterior, I discovered a quiet, awkward man who loved jazz and old records. We talked, danced without music, and shared a gentle kiss that made me feel alive for the first time in years.
