“Start small—work on little piles before raking everything together. It’ll save you time,” I said, trying to sound helpful.

Kate paused mid-swing of her rake, her glare sharp enough to wither the leaves she was collecting. “Didn’t you say your leg was bothering you?” she replied coolly. “Maybe you should head inside and rest.”

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

Kate rolled her eyes and placed a hand protectively 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, shuffled into view. “Good afternoon, Mr. Davis!” I called out, forcing a bright tone. He responded with a grunt before retreating indoors. Typical. Just like Kate—always grouchy.

Later, back inside, I noticed a thin layer of dust gathering 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 being grateful, she snapped at me. “Please, leave the kitchen,” she said, exasperated.

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

Kate sighed, her voice tinged with exhaustion. “I know. It’s just harder than I thought it would be.”

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

Over 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 would I waste a perfectly good pie on that grouch? He can’t even manage a polite ‘hello.’”

Her smirk grew wider. “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 stayed with me.

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 by that evening, I found myself standing at his door, feeling a mix of apprehension and excitement. Dinner was simple—roast chicken and mashed potatoes—but the conversation flowed easily, catching me off guard 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,” he admitted.

“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 melody. For the first time in years, I felt at ease.

Peter—he insisted I call him that—soon became an integral part of my life. We spent afternoons laughing, sharing books, and experimenting with new recipes. My days, once clouded with irritation, now felt brighter. Even Kate’s biting remarks didn’t bother me 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 by the kitchen and overheard a conversation between Peter and Kate.

“Thank you for helping arrange 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 some kind of setup?”

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

“Then explain,” I snapped.

Andrew appeared, looking sheepish. “Mom, please don’t be upset. We just wanted to help. You and Peter were both lonely, and neither of you would have taken the first step. The record player idea was just a way to give you a little push.”

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 began to chip 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 sharp wit, and your kindness.”

Something in his voice made my defenses crumble. 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 softening his features.

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