Living with my son Andrew and his sharp-tongued wife Kate was far from the peaceful arrangement I had envisioned. My slightly dramatized leg injury had reluctantly forced Kate to agree to the arrangement, though I could tell she wasn’t thrilled.
One crisp autumn morning, I stepped onto the porch and saw Kate struggling with a rake in the yard. Watching her awkward attempts, I couldn’t help myself. “Kate, you’re doing it all wrong!” I called out. She didn’t even glance my way. Assuming she hadn’t heard, I hobbled closer for dramatic effect. “You need to start with small piles before combining them, otherwise you’re wasting time.”
Kate stopped abruptly, leaning on the rake. “I thought your leg hurt,” she said flatly, her eyes narrowing. “Maybe it’s time for you to go home?”
I clutched my leg indignantly. “I’m trying to help you, despite the pain, and this is the thanks I get?” Kate sighed, placing a protective hand over her growing belly, muttering something about stress as she returned to her work.
