Living with my son Andrew and his grumpy wife Kate was far from peaceful. My leg injury had forced Kate’s reluctant acceptance of my stay, but tensions ran high. One morning, I watched Kate struggling to rake leaves and offered advice. She barely acknowledged me, her exhaustion clear as she prepared for motherhood.
I tried helping despite the pain, but Kate snapped that I should just go home. Seven months pregnant, she said I wasn’t really helping by just standing there. I bit back a retort, knowing it wasn’t worth the fight. Nearby, the grumpy neighbor Mr. Davis watched with his usual scowl, retreating quickly.