Living with my son Andrew and his strong-willed wife Kate wasn’t exactly the peaceful arrangement I had pictured. After a slightly exaggerated leg injury, I moved into their home, imagining myself as a helpful presence—especially with Kate expecting her first child. But from the start, it was clear she wasn’t thrilled. Her polite smiles and brief responses spoke volumes.
Still, I convinced myself I was doing them a favor. Who better to offer guidance through the chaos of pregnancy and home life?
One crisp fall morning, I spotted Kate in the yard, raking leaves. I called from the porch, “You’re doing it all wrong!” When she didn’t answer, I made my way over and shared some advice. She barely looked up. “Maybe it’s time for you to go home,” she muttered. I blinked, surprised. So much for appreciation.Across the lawn, our neighbor Mr. Davis gave his usual gruff nod before heading inside. Between Kate and him, the neighborhood didn’t exactly feel warm.
Inside the house, I noticed the dust settling on shelves again. With Kate on maternity leave, I assumed there’d be more time for tidying. Later, as she cooked dinner, I offered a few kitchen tips. She turned, exasperated. “Please, just let me cook.” I was starting to feel more like a guest than family.
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