Back inside, I noticed a fine layer of dust on the coffee table. With Kate home on maternity leave, I wondered why things weren’t a bit more polished. Later, as she started making dinner, I offered a few suggestions—helpful ones, I thought—but was promptly asked to leave the kitchen.
That evening, I overheard Andrew and Kate talking. “We talked about this,” he said. “It’ll be good for everyone.” Kate sounded tired. “I know, but it’s harder than I thought.” I peeked around the corner just in time to see Andrew gently reassuring her. Somehow, it bothered me that she was the one being comforted when I felt like the one making sacrifices.
During dinner, I couldn’t help but comment on the pie being slightly undercooked. Instead of bristling, Kate simply said, “Why don’t you bake one for Mr. Davis next time?” I raised an eyebrow. “That grump? He barely says hello.”
Kate smiled, amused. “He’s not so bad. I think he has a soft spot for you.”
I laughed, brushing it off—but the idea lingered.
To my surprise, the next morning, Mr. Davis showed up. “Miss Miller,” he said, stumbling a little, “would you have dinner with me?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Dinner?”
He cleared his throat. “I’d like to get to know you better.”
Curious, I agreed. That evening, we shared a quiet meal. The conversation was awkward until I mentioned my love for jazz. His face lit up. “I’d play you something, but my record player’s broken.”
“You don’t need music to dance,” I replied. And in a soft moment, he hummed an old tune, and we swayed quietly in the dim light.
From then on, Peter—he insisted I call him that—became a regular part of my day. We read books, baked pies, and even laughed over how stubborn we both were. For the first time in years, I felt lighter. Happier. Even Kate’s remarks began to roll off my back.
When Thanksgiving came, I invited Peter. I didn’t want him to spend the day alone. But while helping in the kitchen, I overheard him thanking Kate. “The record player will be here soon,” he said. “Thank you for making this easier.”
Kate replied softly, “You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”
A pang of confusion—and then betrayal—hit me. “So this was planned?” I asked, stepping into the room.
Kate turned. “Margaret, it’s not what you think.”
Andrew entered as I demanded an explanation.
“We didn’t mean to deceive you,” he said. “We just thought you and Peter might get along—and that maybe you needed a little nudge.”
Peter stepped forward. “At first, yes, it was about the record player. But then I got to know you. And I’ve never felt more alive.”
I crossed my arms. “Why should I believe this wasn’t just a setup?”
“Because I fell for you,” he said gently. “Your honesty, your wit, your strength.”
I paused, the fight softening. “Alright,” I said, finally. “But the record player stays at our house. We’ll need it for dancing.”
Peter laughed, and so did I.
From that day on, our lives intertwined. Thanksgiving became our favorite holiday—not just for the food, but for the music, the laughter, and the family we had built.
Because sometimes, the people who challenge us the most end up being the ones who change us the most.