Living with my son and his unbearable wife was far from the peaceful arrangement I had imagined. But when the grumpy neighbor next door unexpectedly asked me to dinner, everything began to change. Little did I know, a secret plan was unfolding — one that would turn my life upside down.
I had been living with my son Andrew and his ever-resentful wife, Kate, for two weeks. It wasn’t an arrangement either of them had ever wanted, but my accidental, slightly exaggerated leg injury had finally forced Kate’s reluctant consent.
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She opposed it, of course—she had for years—but this time, she had no choice.
Stepping out onto the porch that morning, I spotted her in the yard, raking leaves. Watching her from a distance, I sighed. The poor girl hadn’t the faintest idea what she was doing.
“Kate, you’re doing it all wrong!” I called, raising my voice. She didn’t even look up.
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I assumed she hadn’t heard, so I moved closer, wincing for effect. “I’m telling you, you’re raking them the wrong way. Start with small piles, then combine them into one big heap. Dragging them across the yard is a waste of time.”
She stopped abruptly, leaning on the rake, and turned to face me. Her face betrayed the exhaustion of carrying a child and hosting an unwanted guest.
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“I thought your leg hurt,” she said flatly, her gaze drifting to my suspiciously steady walk. “Maybe it’s time for you to go home?”
The nerve of her! Clutching my leg for emphasis, I replied indignantly, “I was trying to help you, despite the pain, and this is how you thank me?”
Kate rested a hand on her belly, the protective gesture unmistakable. “I’m seven months pregnant. Helping would mean actually doing something useful,” she said, her voice sharper than the autumn air.
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Rude, I thought, but I forced a tight smile. She wasn’t worth the argument.
Across the fence, Mr. Davis, their grouchy neighbor, shuffled into view, his perpetual scowl in place.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Davis!” I chirped, trying to soften his hard expression. He grumbled something under his breath and disappeared into his house without so much as a nod. Just like Kate—miserable and unsociable.
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Back inside, I noticed dust on the furniture again. Kate was on maternity leave—surely, she could spare time to clean. Andrew deserved a better-kept home after all his hard work.
Later, Kate returned to the house and started preparing dinner. Naturally, I offered her a few helpful tips, but my advice seemed to fall on deaf ears. Eventually, she turned and said coldly, “Please, just leave the kitchen.”
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That evening, as Andrew came through the door, I heard her complaining to him. Leaning close to the wall, I caught snippets of their conversation.
“We discussed this,” Andrew said, his tone measured. “It’ll benefit everyone.”
“I know,” Kate replied with a weary sigh. “I’m already trying, but it’s harder than you think.”
When I peeked around the corner, I saw Andrew embracing her, his arms wrapped protectively around her growing belly. He comforted her as if she were the victim here!
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At dinner, I couldn’t resist pointing out that her pie was undercooked.
“I have an idea,” Kate said suddenly, her tone too cheerful to be genuine. “Why don’t you bake a pie yourself and bring it to Mr. Davis?”
I frowned. “That grump? He doesn’t even greet me,” I scoffed, narrowing my eyes at her.
“I think you’re mistaken. He’s not so bad—just shy,” she said, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Besides, I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
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I laughed, the sound hollow. “If that’s true, he’s the one who should make the first move. A man should court a lady.”
Kate sighed, her gaze shifting to Andrew, who squeezed her hand as if sharing a secret.
The next morning, the last thing I expected was to see Mr. Davis approaching the yard.
“Margaret,” he began stiffly, his posture as awkward as his tone. “Would you… well… have dinner with me?”
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“For you, it’s Miss Miller,” I replied, raising an eyebrow.
His lips twitched in frustration. “Alright, Miss Miller,” he corrected himself. “Would you allow me to invite you to dinner?”
“I allow it,” I said, crossing my arms. He nodded curtly and turned to leave.
“Is that how you invite someone?” I called after him, watching him freeze mid-step. “When? Where?”
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“Tonight at seven. My house,” he said without turning back.
The rest of the day was a flurry of preparation. By seven sharp, I stood at his door, my heart unexpectedly fluttering. When he opened the door, his expression was as grim as ever.
Inside, he gestured for me to sit at the table. Not even a pulled-out chair—some gentleman.
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During dinner, the conversation was stilted until I mentioned my love for jazz. His face transformed, his usual gloom replaced by a boyish enthusiasm.
“I’d play my favorite record for you,” he said, his voice softer now. “And I’d even invite you to dance, but my record player’s broken.”
“You don’t need music to dance,” I said, surprising myself.
To my astonishment, he rose and extended his hand. As we swayed in the dim light, he hummed a familiar tune, one I hadn’t heard in years. Something inside me softened, and for the first time in ages, I didn’t feel alone.
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Afterward, I turned to him. “Mr. Davis, it’s getting late. I should go home.”
He nodded silently, his usual reserved demeanor returning, and walked me to the door.
Before I stepped outside, he hesitated. “You can call me Peter,” he said, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it.
“And you can call me Margaret,” I replied, smiling.
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Then, to my astonishment, he leaned in. For a moment, I froze, uncertain, but when his lips brushed mine, I realized I didn’t want to pull away.
The kiss was gentle and hesitant, but it stirred something I hadn’t felt in years.
As he pulled back, he searched my face for a reaction. I simply smiled, my heart lighter than it had been in ages.
“Good night, Peter,” I said softly, stepping outside. The cool night air met my flushed cheeks, but the smile stayed on my face all the way home—and long after.
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Peter became an irreplaceable part of my days. We spent hours together, laughing over neighborhood gossip, reading books from his vast collection, and trying our hands at new recipes.
While I cooked, he’d hum my favorite songs, filling the house with warmth.
I found a joy I hadn’t known in years, a quiet contentment that made everything else fade.
Kate’s sharp remarks no longer bothered me; my world revolved around Peter.
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On Thanksgiving, I invited him to dinner so he wouldn’t spend the day alone. I noticed him slipping into the kitchen to speak with Kate. Curious, I followed.
“Kate, I wanted to talk to you about the record player,” Peter said, his voice hesitant but firm.
“Mr. Davis, I’ve already ordered it. It’ll arrive soon. You have no idea how grateful I am,” Kate replied with a hint of relief. “You’ve made my life so much easier. I don’t know how you put up with her, but soon the record player will be yours. Thank you for agreeing to this whole charade.”
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The words hit me like a slap. A record player? Putting up with me? A charade? The realization burned through me as anger surged.
“So, this was all a game?!” I burst into the kitchen, my voice trembling with fury.
Kate froze, her face pale. “Oh…” was all she managed.
“Care to explain?!” I shouted, my gaze darting between her and Peter.
Andrew rushed in, his brow furrowed in concern. “What’s going on?”
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“Your wife concocted some scheme against me!” I exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Kate.
Andrew sighed deeply. It was as if he was bracing himself for a storm. “Mom, it wasn’t just her. It was my idea too. We thought you and Mr. Davis might make each other happy. Neither of you would have made the first move, so we gave him a little… encouragement.”
“Encouragement?” I repeated, my voice rising.
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“We offered him a record player,” Andrew admitted, his tone measured but guilty. “In exchange for going on dates with you.”
“Andrew, why?” Kate whispered.
“At least my son is honest with me!” I snapped, crossing my arms.
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“Your son was also at his wit’s end with you!” Kate shot back, her voice tinged with frustration. “You were constantly interfering in our lives, nitpicking every little thing I did. And I’m pregnant with your grandchild—I couldn’t handle the stress! So yes, we came up with this plan, and it worked perfectly. You finally had something to do, and I got a break!”
Her words hung in the air, stinging more than I cared to admit. I shook my head, disbelief coursing through me. “You know what, Peter? I could have expected this from her. But not from you.”
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“Margaret, I can explain…” Peter began, stepping toward me.
But I was too angry to listen. I stormed out of the house, my old leg injury reminding me of its presence with every step.
“Margaret!” Peter called after me. “Margaret, wait!”
Spinning around, I glared at him. “What?! What could you possibly say? I’m too old for these games!”
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He stopped, his face clouded with regret. “I told Kate I didn’t need her record player! That I just wanted to be with you!” he shouted, his voice raw with emotion.
“That doesn’t change the fact that you agreed to it at first,” I retorted, my voice trembling.
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“Because you were awful!” Peter snapped, then softened. “Or at least, that’s what I thought. I heard how you constantly picked on Kate, always telling her what to do. But the truth is, I wasn’t any better—grumpy, closed off, and bitter. You changed me, Margaret. You made me feel alive again. You reminded me how to find joy in the little things.”
I hesitated, his words piercing through my anger. “Why should I believe you?” I asked, my voice quieter now.
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Peter stepped closer, his gaze steady. “Because I’ve fallen for you, Margaret. For the meticulous, bossy, always-right woman who also cares so deeply, who cooks meals that feel like home, and who knows all my favorite songs by heart. I love you—all of you.”
Tears welled in my eyes, his confession shaking me to my core. The truth was undeniable—I had fallen for him too. No matter how furious I was, my feelings wouldn’t let me walk away.
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He reached out, gently brushing a tear from my cheek. “I’m sorry for hurting you. Please, give me a second chance.”
I nodded slowly, letting the tension ease. “Alright,” I said, my voice softening. “But you’re keeping that record player from Kate. We’ll need it for our music.” Peter laughed, relief and joy washing over his face.
From that Thanksgiving on, Peter and I were inseparable. Each year, we celebrated the holiday with music playing on that record player, our love growing stronger with every tune.
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Gary Burghoff AKA Radar from ‘M*A*S*H’ Always Kept His Left Hand Out of View – Five Times We Could See It
The hit 1972 sitcom “M*A*S*H” introduced the world to a number of memorable and beloved characters, from the smart-mouthed yet compassionate Captain Benjamin Franklin “Hawkeye” Pierce to his endearing friend, Captain B.J. Hunnicutt. Almost every character had stuck in the minds of the fans.
One of the characters that often featured but was easily overlooked by his military counterparts due to his nervous nature was the 4077 MASH unit’s company clerk, Corporal Walter Eugene “Radar” O’Reilly. Although many of the staff on the base tended to take Radar’s effort for granted, the fans sure noticed him.
Radar was portrayed by the acclaimed actor Gary Burghoff from the start of the TV show in 1972 until the seventh season, which aired in 1979. Although fans clamored for more of the unassuming clerk, Burghoff revealed that he needed to step away from the show to rekindle his personal relationships and fight burnout.
“M*A*S*H’s” Influence and Burghoff’s Personal Identity
Although Burghoff enjoyed playing Radar, the role became increasingly demanding. The actor commented that it became difficult to separate himself from his character in the eyes of the public, which soon became tedious. He also noted that he despised being fawned over by the crowds:
“Aw, I know I’m cute. Cute, cute, CUTE! I was always cute because I was always the smallest kid on the block. I hate cute.”
Everyone saw Burghoff as an adorable, short, timid character as they’d known him on-screen and on the stage for many years. However, after years of being looked down upon, both metaphorically and physically speaking, Burghoff grew tired of the persona so easily attributed to him by scores of people he had never even met.
The actor lashed out against this view of him as a cute little fellow by defending his height. As he so rightly pointed out, 5 feet 6 inches isn’t irregularly short, and he would have seen the tops of Arte Johnson or Mickey Rooney’s heads had they ever met. Nonetheless, the persona stuck.
Luckily for all his fans, Burghoff didn’t let his disability stand in his way, and he pursued his dream of becoming an actor.
Despite his misgivings about how others perceived him, Burghoff’s fellow cast members adored him. The director Charles Dubin recalled working with Burghoff before he left “M*A*S*H,” noting how caring and pleasant Burghoff was to everyone on set. However, Burghoff had another aspect of himself that drove down his self-esteem.
Burghoff had been born with a congenital disability called Brachydactyly, a form of Poland Syndrome. The condition left the actor with three fingers on his left hand that were noticeably smaller than the rest of his digits, and the abnormality had plagued him since he was a small child. The actor commented:
“Of course, this defect affected me while I was growing up. I suppose when I was very young, I knew my disability would set me apart and make me special.”
Luckily for all his fans, Burghoff didn’t let his disability stand in his way, and he pursued his dream of becoming an actor. Yet, becoming a fan-favorite on one of the most iconic TV shows America had ever produced never managed to quell his insecurities about his stout fingers and stocky frame.
Throughout his run on “M*A*S*H,” Burghoff tried to hide his left hand from the camera. He would often position himself so that the camera could only see one side of his body and usually gestured with his right if the scene required it, although the actor would be obligated to use both hands now and again.
In one of the earliest episodes, viewers were introduced to Radar as he stood in an open area, wearing a greyish shirt and his trademark cap. As the actor turned around and looked at the sky — once again hearing approaching helicopters before everyone else — the camera briefly panned over both his hands holding a football.
When Colonel Sherman T. Potter first made his appearance on the show, taking over from the beloved Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake, Radar and the new commander shared a scene where they first met. As Colonel Potter exited the room to find the latrines, the camera centered on Burghoff’s upper body as he opened a box with both hands.
Another infamous scene caught Burghoff with both hands on camera. During a regular morning salute, with the loathsome Major Frank Burns leading the ceremony, Radar does his usual morning salute with a bugle. In a hilarious twist, one of the men fires off the ceremonial canon at Burns’s behest.
Naturally, Radar gets the short end of the stick as the cannonball flies directly at him, knocking his instrument clean out of his hands. In the next few seconds, Burghoff turns toward the camera in a pantomime of rage, balling his fists and stomping in outrage. Here, both his hands can be seen for a brief second.
In one of the later episodes, the writers showed off Radar’s softer side when he cuddled his pet guinea pig, Babette. Naturally, Radar stood with his left hand beneath his right, but just as he started to sing, Father John Mulcahy called for him. Burghoff’s hands were visible again as he put the Babette away.
One of the scenes where Burghoff openly showed his left hand came as part of another gag the show pulled. At the start of the scene, Radar could be seen walking across a dirt road while two other military personnel walked away from the camera. The man on Radar’s right first lifted his hand in salute, followed shortly by one on the left.
Radar, the pleasant character he was, lifted his right hand in response to the first salute, as military etiquette dictates. Caught off guard by the quick second salute, Radar lifted his left hand as well, essentially performing a double salute. Feeling sheepish, he frowned and lowered his hands slowly in one of Burghoff’s classic displays of confusion.
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