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.
