Living with my son Andrew and his resentful wife, Kate, was far from ideal. My exaggerated leg injury got me a place in their home, but Kate made it clear I was unwanted. One day, as I criticized her leaf-raking, her sharp response made me feel like a burden. To my surprise, their grumpy neighbor Mr. Davis—Peter—invited me to dinner. That simple offer changed everything.
Our dinner was awkward at first, but when I mentioned my love for jazz, something shifted. He hummed, I danced, and for the first time in years, I felt alive. We grew close, and Kate seemed oddly supportive. But on Thanksgiving, I overheard her thanking Peter for keeping up a “charade” in exchange for a record player. I was furious—had it all been fake?
When I confronted them, the truth came out: Andrew and Kate had orchestrated the relationship, hoping we’d both benefit. I felt humiliated, betrayed by everyone—including Peter. But then he confessed something real: that he no longer cared about the deal, that he had truly fallen for me. “You made me feel alive again,” he said.
His words reached a part of me I didn’t know was still open. In the end, I forgave him. We kept the record player—not for Kate, but for ourselves. That Thanksgiving marked the beginning of something beautiful. Each year since, we play music, dance in the living room, and celebrate a love that began as a setup—but turned out to be the real thing.
