“She’s Pretending, Grandma”
My granddaughter never calls me on her own. Not ever.
So when I heard her tiny voice whisper on the phone, “Mommy’s pretending she’s not scared,” I felt something cold run down my back. That’s not something a five-year-old should ever say. Especially not in that voice.
And what I found when I got there… it left me standing in the doorway, frozen, heart pounding like a drum.
It started like this:
“Hi Grandma,” Lila whispered so softly I could barely hear her. “Can you take me sleep at your house tonight?”
I froze in my chair. My heart stopped for a second.
Lila never whispers like that.
She’s only five—full of energy and sunshine. Always bouncing around, talking about unicorns, space pirates, and imaginary dragon friends. She’s got these big blue eyes, curly blonde hair that springs when she runs, and two missing front teeth that she’s very proud of. Usually, her voice is full of excitement. But that night? She sounded like a different kid.
And Lila never calls me. Not by herself. Never.
But she did that night.
I tried to stay calm. “Of course, sweetie,” I said gently. “Is Mommy there?”
“Yes,” she said. “But she’s pretending.”
I felt myself sit up straighter. “Pretending what?”
“That she’s not scared.”
My chest tightened. My mouth suddenly felt dry.
“…Sweetheart, where is Mommy now?”
“In the bathroom,” she whispered again. “The door is closed as—”
And then the call dropped. Just like that.
The silence on the line was louder than anything I’d ever heard.
Let me tell you who we are.
I’m Judy. Sixty-one years old. I’m a widow, tea drinker, chronic worrier, and proud grandma. I’ve lived on the same quiet little street for over 30 years.
My daughter, Emma, is 36. Smart as a whip, kind to everyone, and quiet—too quiet sometimes. She works at the library, loves crossword puzzles, and doesn’t open up much. Especially not about feelings… or about Mike, her husband.
Mike died two years ago in a sudden car accident. Emma never dated after that. She’s strong, but I know she’s still healing.
I lost my own husband, Bob, five years ago. Stroke. He was gone before I even made it to the hospital.
So now it’s just us girls—me, Emma, and little Lila.
We don’t live under the same roof, but it feels like we do. I’m over at their place nearly every day. Lila’s got her own drawer at my house filled with crayons, pajamas, and her “emergency” glitter glue. I bake cookies; Emma brings over books. We trade dinners, hugs, and tired smiles.
So when I say I knew something was wrong? I knew.
That voice on the phone wasn’t my bubbly granddaughter. It was too quiet. Too serious. Too adult.
And those words… “She’s pretending she’s not scared.”
I stared at my phone like it could explain what just happened. My hands were trembling. The call had ended. I tried redialing. No answer. Again. Straight to voicemail.
“Emma?” I said out loud to the empty room. “Come on, pick up.”
I texted her quickly:
Everything okay? Call me. Please.
Nothing.
I waited ten seconds. That was all I could handle.
I grabbed my purse, my keys, and ran out the door like the house was on fire. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly, my knuckles turned white. Outside, the sky was deep blue—almost night. Streetlights flickered on like sleepy eyes. I barely noticed.
At Broad and 7th, I blew right through a red light. Didn’t even tap the brakes.
I hit call again. Still no answer. My fingers flew across the screen.
Emma, please. Lila called me. I’m coming over.
No response.
My brain was a mess of horrible images. Was someone in the house? Was Emma hurt? Was Lila alone, hiding in a closet, whispering so she wouldn’t be found?
That voice. Lila’s voice. So soft. So serious. Like she was protecting a secret.
And what did she say again?
“She’s pretending.”
Pretending to be okay? Pretending for Lila’s sake? Or pretending because someone else was watching?
Another horn blared as I flew through another intersection. I didn’t care. Every second felt like too many.
By the time I pulled into their driveway, my heart felt like it was going to explode. I parked half on the grass. The house was dark. Not a single light on. Not even the porch light. That porch light is always on.
I ran up the steps. Knocked once. Tried the handle.
It turned.
The door was unlocked.
I stepped inside. “Emma?” I called.
No answer.
“Lila?”
Still nothing.
It was cold in there. Uncomfortably cold. And too quiet. Not peaceful-quiet. Wrong-quiet. Like the house was holding its breath.
The living room was empty. Curtains shut. Lila’s favorite blanket was half on the couch, like she’d just been there.
I crept down the hallway, every step echoing louder than the last. Then I heard it—water running. From the back of the house.
The bathroom.
The door was shut.
My phone buzzed in my hand. I looked down, hope rising.
Spam.
“Ugh,” I whispered. I moved closer to the door.
Water still running. My heart beat so loud, I could hear it in my ears.
I raised my hand to knock—
And then I heard it.
A scream.
High. Sharp. Lila.
I ran. I didn’t think. I didn’t breathe. I just burst through the door like a woman possessed—
And stopped cold.
Emma was crouched over the toilet, slamming the lid shut like she was trying to trap a monster. Her hair had fallen out of its bun, and she had a mop in both hands, holding it like a baseball bat.
Lila was in the far corner of the bathroom, pointing to the ceiling with eyes as wide as dinner plates.
They both turned and looked at me like I’d just crashed into their secret bunker during the zombie apocalypse.
“Mom!” Emma shouted.
“Grandma!” Lila squealed, running toward me.
I was breathless. “What is going on?!”
Emma blinked, still holding the mop like she wasn’t sure if she needed to swing it. “Why are you—what are you doing here?!”
“You weren’t answering! Lila called me!”
Emma’s face changed. She looked at Lila. Then back at me.
“I thought…” I stopped. My throat tightened. “I thought something horrible happened.”
Emma glanced down at the mop. “Well… something did happen.”
She pointed to the toilet. “Two of them.”
I stared. “Two what?”
“Spiders,” she said. “Big ones.”
“Spiders?”
She nodded seriously. “Like… the size of tangerines.”
I almost fell to the floor.
“Emma,” I said, my voice shaky, “I ran red lights to get here. You weren’t answering. The house was dark. Lila said—”
“She called you?” Emma asked, eyes wide.
“She used your phone. And the call dropped before she could finish.”
Emma sighed and sat down on the toilet lid like her legs gave up.
My hands were still trembling. Lila hadn’t moved from the corner.
Emma brushed hair from her face. “That was… ridiculous.”
Lila finally tiptoed over to me. She looked up at me with big eyes and said, “Mommy was pretending.”
Emma looked up. “What?”
“You said it was no big deal,” Lila whispered, “but you kept saying, ‘oh no, oh no,’ really quiet. I heard you.”
Emma groaned and covered her face. “Okay. You caught me.”
She peeked through her fingers and looked at me. “I didn’t want to scare her.”
“You didn’t,” Lila said proudly. “You just looked… funny.”
We all laughed then. Not a big laugh. Just that kind of tired, grateful laugh that comes after you realize everything’s okay.
Emma shook her head. “I can’t believe she called you.”
“She was worried,” I said.
“She’s five.”
“She’s clever,” I smiled.
Lila beamed like she’d just won a gold medal.
What I didn’t tell them? I’m just as scared of spiders as Emma. Bob used to be my spider-remover. Now? I suck them up with the vacuum cleaner and whisper a prayer.
Later, we made popcorn and sat around the kitchen island in our pajamas. Eating, laughing, and pretending nothing had happened. The bathroom door stayed shut. None of us dared to open it again.
That night, I stayed over. Emma offered, but she didn’t need to. I wasn’t leaving.
Lila had already dragged her sleeping bag into the guest room before I’d even finished brushing my teeth. I tucked her in, wrapping her in her favorite blanket.
Her wild curls poked out from the pillow. Her cheeks were rosy from all the excitement.
She looked up and whispered, “Next time, I’ll call before the spiders show up.”
I smiled, kissed her forehead, and whispered back, “Good plan.”
I didn’t tell her the truth—that I probably would’ve screamed too.
Some secrets? Are just between grown-ups.
As I sat there, watching her drift off, I thought about what love really looks like. Sometimes, it’s bedtime stories. Sometimes, it’s phone calls that don’t make sense. Sometimes, it’s running red lights without blinking.
And sometimes?
It’s just snacks in the kitchen at night.
Just us girls.
Making it work.
