Living with my son Andrew and his strong-willed wife Kate wasn’t exactly the peaceful arrangement I had pictured. After a slightly exaggerated leg injury, I moved into their home, imagining myself as a helpful presence—especially with Kate expecting her first child. But from the start, it was clear she wasn’t thrilled. Her polite smiles and brief responses spoke volumes.
Still, I convinced myself I was doing them a favor. Who better to offer guidance through the chaos of pregnancy and home life?
One crisp fall morning, I spotted Kate in the yard, raking leaves. I called from the porch, “You’re doing it all wrong!” When she didn’t answer, I made my way over and shared some advice. She barely looked up. “Maybe it’s time for you to go home,” she muttered. I blinked, surprised. So much for appreciation.
Across the lawn, our neighbor Mr. Davis gave his usual gruff nod before heading inside. Between Kate and him, the neighborhood didn’t exactly feel warm.
Inside the house, I noticed the dust settling on shelves again. With Kate on maternity leave, I assumed there’d be more time for tidying. Later, as she cooked dinner, I offered a few kitchen tips. She turned, exasperated. “Please, just let me cook.” I was starting to feel more like a guest than family.
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