Living with my son Andrew and his wife Kate was nothing like the peaceful arrangement I’d hoped for. When my leg injury forced me to stay with them, Kate reluctantly agreed, though she’d always opposed the idea.

One morning, I watched Kate rake leaves and couldn’t help but point out her mistakes. She snapped back, suggesting I go home if I felt so capable. Her sharpness stung, but I held my tongue. Later, she insisted I leave the kitchen while she cooked, and I overheard Andrew comforting her, as if she were the victim.

At dinner, I sarcastically mentioned her undercooked pie, and she suggested I bake one for our neighbor, Mr. Davis. I was skeptical, but she insisted he wasn’t as bad as I thought. The next day, Mr. Davis awkwardly invited me to dinner. I agreed, and to my surprise, we connected over our love of jazz. The evening ended with a hesitant, yet tender kiss.

Soon, Peter—yes, Mr. Davis—became a regular part of my life. I was happier than I’d been in years. On Thanksgiving, I invited him over, and he slipped into the kitchen to talk to Kate. What I overheard shocked me—Kate and Andrew had been encouraging Peter to date me as part of some scheme, offering him a record player in exchange for going on dates.

Furious, I confronted them. Andrew admitted it was their plan to give me something to do while giving Kate a break from my interference. I felt betrayed, especially by Peter, who had gone along with it.

But Peter, looking regretful, confessed he hadn’t wanted the record player; he wanted to be with me. His words, his sincerity, broke through my anger. I couldn’t deny it—I had fallen for him too. He apologized, and we made up, agreeing to keep the record player for our music.

From that Thanksgiving on, Peter and I were inseparable, sharing music, love, and a new chapter in life.