I had been staying with my son, Ben, and his wife, Sarah, for two weeks. It wasn’t something either of them truly wanted, but my leg injury—slightly dramatized, I’ll admit—had finally pushed Sarah into agreeing.
She had never liked the idea of me living with them. This time, though, she felt she had no choice.
One morning, I stepped outside and saw her in the yard, struggling with a rake and a pile of fallen leaves. I sighed to myself. She clearly didn’t know what she was doing.
“Sarah, that’s not how you rake leaves,” I called out. She didn’t even look up.
Assuming she hadn’t heard me, I limped closer. “You’re supposed to make small piles first, then combine them. Dragging everything around like that is useless.”
She stopped and leaned on the rake, turning to face me. Her expression showed pure exhaustion—the kind that comes from being seven months pregnant and dealing with an unwanted houseguest.
“I thought your leg was injured,” she said evenly. “Maybe it’s time you went back home.”
The audacity. I clutched my leg dramatically. “I’m trying to help you despite being in pain, and this is the thanks I get?”
She placed a hand over her belly. “Helping would mean actually doing something useful,” she replied sharply.
I forced a tight smile. She wasn’t worth the argument.
Across the fence, the neighbor—Mr. Wilson—appeared. As usual, he wore his permanent scowl.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wilson!” I called cheerfully. He muttered something under his breath and went back inside without acknowledging me. Cold and distant—just like Sarah.
Inside the house, I noticed dust on the shelves again. Sarah was on maternity leave. Surely she could manage a little cleaning. Ben worked hard and deserved better.
That evening, Sarah cooked dinner. I offered a few helpful suggestions, but she ignored me. Finally, she turned around and said, “Please leave the kitchen.”
Later, when Ben came home, I overheard them talking quietly.
“We agreed on this,” Ben said calmly. “It’ll be good for everyone.”
“I know,” Sarah replied with a tired sigh. “I’m trying, but it’s harder than you think.”
When I peeked around the corner, I saw Ben holding her, his hands resting protectively on her belly. He was comforting her—as if she were the one suffering.
At dinner, I couldn’t help mentioning that her pie was underbaked.
Suddenly, Sarah smiled. “I have an idea,” she said brightly. “Why don’t you bake a pie and take it to Mr. Wilson?”
“That grump?” I scoffed. “He barely speaks.”
“You’re wrong,” she said. “He’s just quiet. And honestly, I’ve noticed the way he looks at you.”
I laughed dismissively. “If that’s true, he should make the first move.”
The next morning, I nearly dropped my coffee when I saw Mr. Wilson walking toward the yard.
“Helen,” he said stiffly. “Would you… like to have dinner with me?”
“For you, it’s Miss Carter,” I replied coolly.
He sighed. “Alright. Miss Carter… may I take you to dinner tonight?”
That evening, I stood outside his door, more nervous than I wanted to admit.
Dinner started awkwardly, with long silences, until I mentioned my love for jazz. His entire face changed.
“I’d play you my favorite record,” he said softly, “but my record player is broken.”
“You don’t need music to dance,” I replied without thinking.
He stood and offered his hand. As we swayed, he hummed an old tune. For the first time in years, I felt warm… alive… not alone.
When it was time to leave, he walked me to the door. “Call me Frank,” he said quietly.
Then he leaned in and kissed me—gently, carefully. I didn’t pull away.
From that night on, Frank became a big part of my life. We cooked together, shared stories, read books, and filled his house with laughter and music—even without a record player.
Sarah’s sharp remarks stopped bothering me. I had found my own happiness.
On Thanksgiving, I invited Frank so he wouldn’t be alone. While dinner was cooking, I heard voices in the kitchen and followed them.
“The record player is on the way,” Sarah said quietly. “Thank you for doing this. You’ve made my life so much easier.”
My heart sank.
“So this was all a setup?” I shouted as I stepped inside.
Ben admitted everything. Sarah did too. They had pushed Frank into dating me to keep me occupied—and out of their way.
I was furious. Hurt. Humiliated.
I stormed outside, but Frank followed me. “I never wanted the deal,” he said desperately. “I wanted you.”
He looked at me with tears in his eyes. “You changed my life, Helen. I’ve fallen in love with you—completely.”
My anger softened. Because despite everything, I had fallen for him too.
“Alright,” I said finally. “But we’re keeping that record player.”
From that Thanksgiving on, our holidays were filled with music, dancing, and a love neither of us expected—but both of us needed.
Comments
Post a Comment