One cool fall morning, I stepped outside and saw Kate struggling in the yard, trying to manage a rake while heavily pregnant. Leaves were everywhere, and her movements were slow and careful.
“You’re doing it all wrong,” I called out before I could stop myself.
She ignored me, so I limped closer, subtly reminding her of my injury. “You start at the edges,” I said.
She finally turned, exhaustion written all over her face. “I thought your leg was injured,” she replied coolly. “Maybe you should rest. Or maybe go back home.”
I stiffened. “I’m just trying to help.”
She placed a hand on her stomach. “I’m seven months pregnant. Help would actually be helpful.”
I turned away, biting back my irritation. Across the fence, the neighbor appeared briefly—a tall, gruff man with a permanent scowl. Mr. Davis. He muttered something and disappeared back inside. I remember thinking the neighborhood seemed full of unhappy people.
Inside the house, I noticed the dust again. Kate was on maternity leave—surely basic household upkeep wasn’t too much to ask. When I offered cooking suggestions later that evening, she told me to leave the kitchen.
That night, I overheard her venting to Andrew while he comforted her as if she were the only one struggling. At dinner, I commented that her pie was underbaked. She smiled tightly and suggested that next time, I bake one myself—perhaps for the neighbor.
The idea sounded ridiculous, until the next morning when the neighbor himself appeared, awkwardly inviting me to dinner. His invitation was stiff and uncomfortable, but something about it caught my attention. I agreed.
