Living with my son Andrew and his strong-willed wife Kate wasn’t exactly the peaceful arrangement I’d imagined. A minor leg injury—slightly dramatized, I’ll admit—meant I needed a temporary place to stay, and though Kate agreed to let me move in, I could tell she wasn’t exactly thrilled.
One crisp fall morning, I stepped out onto the porch and saw Kate struggling to rake leaves. I watched for a while, then called out, “Kate, you’re doing it all wrong!” She didn’t respond, so I hobbled closer, leaning into the limp a little for emphasis. “Start with small piles. You’ll waste less time.”
She paused, resting on the rake. “I thought your leg hurt,” she said flatly. “Maybe it’s time for you to go home?”
“I’m just trying to help,” I replied, clutching my leg. She sighed, one hand resting on her growing belly, and went back to work.
Across the yard, our grumpy neighbor, Mr. Davis, made his usual silent appearance. “Good afternoon!” I called. He mumbled something inaudible and slipped back inside. Miserable, I thought—not unlike Kate.
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