Living with my son and his difficult wife was nothing like the peaceful life I had imagined. I thought there’d be warm tea, family dinners, and a little help when I needed it. But instead, I got side-eyes, cold shoulders, and an uncomfortable guest room.
Then, something unexpected happened. The grumpy man next door—Mr. Davis, who barely nodded at anyone—suddenly asked me to dinner. That one little question was the beginning of something big. I had no idea that behind his stiff invitation, a secret plan was quietly unfolding… and it was about to flip my life upside down.
It had been two long weeks since I moved into my son Andrew’s house. He lived there with his pregnant wife, Kate. Neither of them really wanted me to move in, but a small “accident” gave me just the opportunity I needed. I may have exaggerated my leg injury just a little. Kate wasn’t happy, but she had no choice.
She never wanted me there. She never did. But now that I was “injured,” she had to say yes.
That morning, I stepped out onto the porch, hoping for a little peace. Instead, I saw Kate awkwardly raking leaves in the yard. Honestly, she looked completely clueless. I couldn’t help myself.
“Kate, you’re doing it all wrong!” I shouted. She didn’t even glance at me.
I assumed she didn’t hear, so I hobbled closer, adding a limp for effect. “You should start with small piles, then push them into one big heap. Dragging them across the yard is just wasting your energy.”
She stopped raking, leaned on the handle, and turned around. Her face was tired, and her hand was resting protectively on her round belly.
“I thought your leg hurt,” she said flatly, eyeing the way I was walking just a bit too well. “Maybe it’s time for you to go home?”
The nerve of that girl! I grabbed my leg and winced dramatically. “I’m trying to help you,” I snapped. “Despite the pain! And this is how you treat me?”
She didn’t even blink. “I’m seven months pregnant,” she said with sharpness in her voice. “Helping would mean actually doing something useful.”
Rude. But I bit my tongue and forced a fake smile. She wasn’t worth the argument. Not today.
Just then, I noticed Mr. Davis, the grumpy old man who lived next door, shuffling past the fence. His scowl was still glued to his face.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Davis!” I called cheerfully.
He grumbled something under his breath and walked straight into his house without even a nod. Miserable. Just like Kate.
Inside, I saw dust on the coffee table again. Kate was on maternity leave—couldn’t she find a moment to clean? Andrew worked hard. He deserved a clean house, not piles of dust and undercooked dinners.
Later, when Kate came inside to cook, I offered some “helpful” advice from my stool in the kitchen. Little tips here and there. Of course, she didn’t appreciate them.
After a few minutes, she spun around and said, “Please, just leave the kitchen.”
That evening, when Andrew got home, I heard whispers from the living room. I leaned against the wall to listen.
“We talked about this,” Andrew said gently. “It’s going to help all of us.”
“I know,” Kate sighed. “I’m really trying, but it’s harder than you think.”
Peeking around the corner, I saw Andrew hugging her, his arms wrapped around her belly. As if she was the one who needed comfort!
At dinner, I took one bite of the pie she made and raised my eyebrows. “It’s a little undercooked,” I said with a tight smile.
Kate looked at me with a strange kind of cheer. Too cheerful. “I have an idea,” she said brightly. “Why don’t you bake a pie and bring it to Mr. Davis?”
I stared at her. “That grump? He never even says hello.”
Kate shrugged, trying to look innocent. “I think he’s just shy. And I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
I laughed, but there was no joy in it. “If that’s true, then he should make the first move. A man should court a lady.”
Kate gave Andrew a look. He squeezed her hand, like they were sharing a private joke. I didn’t like it one bit.
The next morning, I was watering the sad little plant on the windowsill when I saw someone coming across the yard.
It was Mr. Davis.
He walked up stiffly and cleared his throat. “Margaret,” he said awkwardly. “Would you… well… have dinner with me?”
I raised an eyebrow. “For you, it’s Miss Miller.”
He sighed. “Alright, Miss Miller. Would you allow me to invite you to dinner?”
I smirked and crossed my arms. “I allow it.”
He turned to walk away.
“Is that how you invite someone?” I called after him. “When? Where?”
He froze. “Tonight. At seven. My house.”
All day, I was buzzing with nerves. By seven, I was standing at his door, my heart fluttering like a schoolgirl’s. He opened the door, still wearing that same grumpy face.
He didn’t even pull out my chair when we sat at the table. Still, I gave him a chance.
Dinner was stiff—until I mentioned jazz music. Suddenly, something lit up inside him. That grump cracked a smile.
“I’d play my favorite record,” he said, his voice warmer now. “And maybe even ask you to dance… but my record player’s broken.”
“You don’t need music to dance,” I said, surprising even myself.
To my shock, he stood up and reached for my hand. We danced slowly in the soft light of his dining room, and he hummed a tune I hadn’t heard in years. I melted a little inside. For the first time in ages, I didn’t feel so alone.
Afterwards, I looked at the clock. “It’s getting late. I should go.”
He walked me to the door, then paused. “You can call me Peter,” he said quietly.
I smiled. “And you can call me Margaret.”
Then, he leaned in and kissed me. It was gentle and hesitant… but something deep inside me stirred. I didn’t want to pull away.
As he stepped back, he looked at me carefully. I smiled, my heart fluttering.
“Good night, Peter,” I whispered.
That night, I walked home smiling like a teenager. And that smile didn’t leave my face for a long time.
Peter and I became inseparable. We spent hours together laughing, sharing stories, reading from his old books, and trying new recipes in the kitchen. He would hum my favorite songs while I cooked, and the house felt full of life again.
Kate’s snide remarks didn’t bother me anymore. My world had shifted. It now revolved around Peter.
On Thanksgiving, I invited him to dinner. I didn’t want him to be alone. But while I was setting the table, I saw him slip into the kitchen to talk to Kate. Curious, I quietly followed.
“Kate,” he said softly, “I wanted to talk about the record player.”
She turned and smiled. “Mr. Davis, I already ordered it. It should arrive soon. You have no idea how grateful I am. You’ve made my life so much easier. I don’t know how you put up with her, but soon the record player will be yours. Thank you for agreeing to this whole charade.”
I froze. My stomach dropped.
A record player? Put up with me? A charade?!
I burst into the kitchen, trembling with anger. “So this was all a game?!”
Kate’s face went pale. “Oh…”
“Care to explain?!” I snapped, looking from her to Peter.
Andrew rushed in. “What’s going on?”
“Your wife planned this whole thing!” I shouted. “A setup!”
Andrew sighed. “Mom, it wasn’t just her. It was my idea too. We thought you and Mr. Davis might make each other happy. Neither of you would’ve made the first move, so we gave him a little… encouragement.”
“Encouragement?” I repeated, stunned.
“We offered him a record player,” Andrew admitted. “In exchange for going on dates with you.”
“At least my son is honest!” I said sharply.
Kate threw her hands up. “Your son was at his wit’s end! You were interfering in everything. Criticizing me every day. And I’m pregnant! I couldn’t handle it anymore. So yes, we came up with this plan. And it worked. You were finally happy, and I got a break!”
Her words stung. I turned to Peter. “You, too? I expected this from her, but you?”
“Margaret, I can explain—” Peter stepped forward.
But I was already storming out, my leg throbbing with every angry step.
“Margaret!” Peter called. “Please, wait!”
I spun around. “What?! I’m too old for games!”
He stopped, his eyes full of regret. “I told Kate I didn’t want her record player! I just wanted to be with you!” he shouted.
“That doesn’t change the fact you agreed to it at first,” I said, voice shaking.
“Because you were awful!” Peter said, then paused. “At least, that’s what I thought. You were always nagging Kate, being bossy. But I wasn’t any better—grumpy, bitter. You changed me, Margaret. You brought joy back into my life.”
“Why should I believe you?” I whispered.
He stepped closer. “Because I’ve fallen for you. For the strong, bossy, caring woman who knows all my favorite songs and makes me feel alive. I love you. All of you.”
Tears filled my eyes. My anger cracked. I couldn’t deny the truth—I had fallen for him too.
He gently wiped a tear from my cheek. “Please, give me a second chance.”
I nodded slowly. “Alright. But you’re keeping that record player. We’ll need it for our music.”
Peter laughed, his eyes shining.
From that Thanksgiving on, we were inseparable. Every year, we played our favorite songs on that record player. And every year, our love grew stronger—just like the music that brought us together.
