Living with my son Andrew and his headstrong wife, Kate, wasn’t quite the peaceful setup I’d pictured. A minor leg injury—slightly exaggerated, I’ll admit—meant I needed a temporary place to stay. Kate agreed to let me move in, though it was clear she wasn’t exactly thrilled about it.
One crisp fall morning, I stepped out onto the porch and spotted Kate struggling with a rake in the front yard. I watched for a bit before calling out, “Kate, you’re doing it all wrong!” She didn’t answer, so I hobbled down a few steps, leaning into the limp a bit for effect. “Start with small piles—you’ll save yourself time.”
She stopped and leaned on the rake. “I thought your leg hurt,” she said dryly. “Maybe it’s time for you to go home?”
“I’m just trying to help,” I said, clutching my leg for emphasis. She sighed, one hand resting on her pregnant belly, and turned back to the leaves.
Just then, our grumpy neighbor, Mr. Davis, appeared across the yard, as he often did—silently and without warning. “Good afternoon!” I called out. He muttered something under his breath and slipped back inside. Miserable, I thought—not unlike Kate.
