The “Temporary” Move-In That Turned Into a War
I’d been living with my son Andrew and his wife, Kate, for two weeks.
Two long, uncomfortable weeks.
It wasn’t an arrangement either of them wanted.
Kate had resisted the idea for years, and only agreed after my “leg injury.”
Accidental… and, if we’re being honest, slightly exaggerated.
In my defense, getting older means you learn one thing fast:
If you don’t advocate for yourself, nobody does.
Still, Kate wasn’t fooled for long.
One morning I stepped onto the porch and saw her raking leaves like she was punishing the ground for existing.
“Kate, you’re doing it all wrong!” I called.
She didn’t even look up.
I moved closer, wincing for effect.
“Start with small piles, then combine them. Dragging everything across the yard is a waste of time.”
She stopped, leaned on the rake, and looked at me with the expression of a woman who had reached her limit.
“I thought your leg hurt,” she said flatly. “Maybe it’s time for you to go home?”
The nerve.
“I’m trying to help despite the pain,” I snapped.
Kate rested a hand on her belly. Seven months pregnant, exhausted, and clearly counting down the days until I left.
“Helping would mean doing something useful,” she said. “Not supervising.”
I forced a smile.
Not worth the argument.
That’s when I noticed him next door.
Mr. Davis.
Grouchy. Unsociable. Permanent scowl.
He grumbled at my greeting and disappeared inside like the world offended him personally.
“Just like Kate,” I muttered.
I didn’t know then that he was about to become the only bright spot in that house.
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