“Start with small piles before raking everything together. It’ll save you time,” I suggested, trying to be helpful.

Kate paused mid-swing of her rake, her sharp glare cutting through the cool air. “Didn’t you say your leg was bothering you?” she asked, her tone cool and indifferent. “Maybe you should go inside and rest.”

I straightened, feeling indignant. “I’m pushing through the pain to help you, and this is the thanks I get?”

Kate rolled her eyes and placed a protective hand over her rounded belly. “Stress isn’t good for the baby,” she muttered before turning back to her work.

From across the yard, our grumpy neighbor, Mr. Davis, appeared. “Good afternoon, Mr. Davis!” I called, forcing a bright tone. He responded with a grunt before disappearing inside. Typical. Just like Kate—always moody.

Later, inside the house, I noticed a thin layer of dust on the coffee table. With Kate home on maternity leave, shouldn’t the house be spotless for Andrew? When she started preparing dinner, I decided to offer my expertise. Instead of appreciating my help, she snapped, “Please, leave the kitchen.”

That evening, when Andrew returned home, I overheard their whispered conversation. “We agreed this would help everyone,” he said firmly.

Kate sighed, exhaustion evident in her voice. “I know. It’s just harder than I thought.”

Curious, I peeked around the corner to see Andrew wrapping his arms around her, murmuring something soothing. The sight irritated me. Kate always played the victim, while I was the one making sacrifices to tolerate her moods.

During dinner, I couldn’t resist commenting on her underbaked pie. Instead of getting defensive, Kate smirked. “Why don’t you bake a pie yourself and take it to Mr. Davis?” she suggested slyly.

I scoffed. “Why waste a perfectly good pie on that grouch? He can’t even say hello.”

Her smirk grew. “Oh, he’s not as bad as you think. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

I rolled my eyes, dismissing her remark, but her words lingered.

The next morning, a knock at the door startled me. To my surprise, Mr. Davis stood on the porch. “Miss Miller,” he began hesitantly, “would you join me for dinner one evening?”

I raised an eyebrow. “It’s Miss Miller,” I corrected, crossing my arms.

He cleared his throat. “Miss Miller, then. Would you allow me to take you to dinner?”

Curiosity got the better of me, and that evening, I found myself at his door, feeling both apprehensive and excited. Dinner was simple—roast chicken and mashed potatoes—but our conversation flowed easily, surprising me with how charming he could be.

When I mentioned my love for jazz, his eyes lit up. “I’d play my favorite record for you, but my player’s broken.”

“You don’t need a record to dance,” I replied without thinking. Moments later, we were swaying in his dimly lit living room as he hummed a soft tune. For the first time in years, I felt at ease.

Peter—he insisted I call him that—soon became an essential part of my life. We spent afternoons laughing, sharing books, and trying new recipes. My once-irritated days now felt lighter. Even Kate’s sharp remarks didn’t sting as much. Peter had become my anchor.

When Thanksgiving arrived, I invited him to join us. I couldn’t bear the thought of him spending the holiday alone. As the day unfolded, I happened to pass the kitchen and overheard a conversation between Peter and Kate.

“Thank you for helping with the record player,” Peter said quietly. “You’ve made this so much easier.”

Kate responded softly, “You don’t know how much this means to us.”

A knot formed in my stomach. Storming into the kitchen, I demanded, “So this was all a setup?”

Kate jumped, her face pale. “It’s not what it looks like—”

“Then explain,” I snapped.

Andrew appeared, looking guilty. “Mom, please don’t be upset. We just wanted to help. You and Peter were both lonely, and neither of you would have made the first move. The record player idea was just a little nudge.”

I turned to Peter, furious. “And you went along with this?”

Peter stepped forward, his expression steady. “At first, yes. But Margaret, what’s happened between us isn’t because of their plan. It’s because of you. You’ve brought joy back into my life. I’ve fallen for you—not because of a record player, but because of who you are.”

His words chipped away at my anger, though I wasn’t ready to forgive so easily. “Why should I believe you?”

“Because I love you,” he said simply. “Every part of you—your stubbornness, your wit, and your kindness.”

Something in his voice softened my defenses. I sighed, nodding slightly. “Fine,” I said. “But the record player stays. We’ll need it for all the dancing we’ll do.”

Peter chuckled, relief washing over his face.

From that moment on, Peter and I were inseparable. Thanksgiving took on a new meaning, becoming our favorite day to celebrate together. It marked the beginning of a journey filled with music, laughter, and love that deepened with every passing year.