My granddaughter never calls me on her own. So when her small voice came through the phone saying her mom was “pretending not to be scared,” I knew instantly that something wasn’t right. What I saw when I got there left me standing in the doorway, stunned and breathless.
“Hi, Grandma… can I sleep at your house tonight?”
I froze in place.
Lila’s voice was quiet—unnervingly quiet. She’s five years old, a bundle of giggles and wild tales. Blonde curls that bounce when she runs, big blue eyes, a gap-toothed smile, always chatting about unicorns, dragons, or space pirates. She’s not the type to whisper.
And she never calls me—certainly not by herself.
But that night, she did.
“Of course, sweetie,” I replied softly. “Is Mommy there?”
“Yes. But she’s pretending.”
I sat upright. “Pretending what?”
“That she’s not scared.”
My chest tightened.
“…Sweetheart, where is she now?”
“In the bathroom. The door is closed and—”
The call abruptly ended.
Let me tell you a bit about us.
I’m Judy, sixty-one years old. Widow. Tea drinker. Chronic worrier. I’ve lived on the same street for three decades.
My daughter Emma is thirty-six. She’s sharp, kind, reserved. Works at the library. Loves crossword puzzles. She’s not one to talk much about feelings—or about her late husband, Mike.
Mike died in a car accident two years ago.
Emma hasn’t dated since. She’s strong, but I know she’s still mending in her own way.
I lost my own husband, Bob, five years ago to a sudden stroke. He was gone before I could even get to him.
Since then, it’s been just us girls—Emma, little Lila, and me.
We don’t live together, but it often feels like we do. I’m at their place more than my own. Lila has a drawer of crayons and pajamas at my house. I bake cookies. Emma brings books. We share dinners, hugs, and the kind of tired smiles only family understands.
That’s why I knew—immediately—that something was wrong.
Lila’s voice that night wasn’t her usual self. Too calm. Too quiet. Too grown-up.
And those words—“She’s pretending she’s not scared.”
My hands trembled as I stared at my phone. The call had dropped. I hit redial. No answer. Tried again. Straight to voicemail.
“Emma?” I called out to no one, as though she could somehow hear me. “Pick up.”
I sent a text.
Everything okay? Call me. Please.
No reply. I waited barely ten seconds before grabbing my keys.
I rushed to my car, gripping the steering wheel as if it were holding me together. The sky was that deepening shade of blue right before nightfall. Streetlights flickered on. I hardly noticed them.
I ran the red light at Broad and 7th without hesitation.
I called again. Still nothing. Texted once more:
Emma, please. Lila called me. I’m coming over.
No response. My chest felt like it was in a vise. My mind was racing faster than the car.
Was someone in the house? Was Emma hurt? Was Lila hiding?
I’d never heard Lila’s voice sound like that—small, secretive, deliberate.
And those words replayed in my head: “She’s pretending.” Pretending she’s fine? Pretending for Lila’s sake? Or… for someone else?
A car horn blared as I blew through another red light. I didn’t care. Fear doesn’t wait politely—it barges in, loud and urgent.
When I finally pulled into their driveway, my heart was pounding so hard it felt like I’d run there.
The house was dark. No lights in the windows. No porch light—and that light is always on.
I half-parked on the lawn, ran to the front door. Knocked once before trying the knob.
It turned easily. Unlocked.
“Emma?” I called, stepping inside.
No reply.
“Lila?”
Silence.
The air inside was cold and heavy. The quiet wasn’t peaceful—it felt wrong.
The living room was empty. Curtains drawn. Lila’s favorite blanket was tossed over the couch like she’d just been there.
I moved quickly down the hall, my footsteps sounding far too loud. Water was running somewhere in the back.
The bathroom.
The door was shut. My phone buzzed in my hand—finally, a call—but it was spam.
I muttered under my breath and stepped closer. The water was still going. My heartbeat roared in my ears.
I raised my hand to knock—
And then a scream ripped through the air. High-pitched. Sharp. A child’s scream.
Lila.
I didn’t think. I just shoved the door open—
And stopped dead.
Emma was crouched over the toilet, slamming the lid shut like she was trying to crush something. Her hair had come loose from its bun, and she gripped a mop like a baseball bat.
Lila was pressed into the corner, eyes huge, pointing toward the ceiling as if she’d seen a ghost.
They both spun toward me like I’d barged into a war bunker.
“Mom!” Emma gasped.
“Grandma!” Lila squealed.
My voice shook. “What’s going on?!”
Emma stared at me, almost dazed. “Why are you here?”
“You weren’t answering. Lila called me.”
Emma blinked a few times, processing.
“I thought…” My throat was tight. “I thought something terrible had happened.”
“Well…” Emma glanced at the mop in her hands. “Something did happen.”
She gestured toward the toilet. “Two of them.”
I took a step forward, still tense. “Two what?”
“Spiders,” she said flatly.
I blinked. “Spiders?”
“Tangerine-sized,” she muttered.
I felt my knees buckle and lock again all at once.
“I drove like a lunatic,” I said. “You didn’t answer. The house was dark. The call dropped. Lila told me—”
Emma turned toward her daughter, still frozen against the wall.
“She called you?”
“She used your phone,” I told her. “Right before the line cut out.”
Emma looked from me to the mop in her hand, then exhaled like the tension had finally caught up to her. She sank onto the closed toilet lid, still gripping the mop.
I scanned Lila—she hadn’t moved from her spot, still staring at the ceiling like the spiders might reappear.
Emma eventually got to her feet, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“Well,” she said, “that was ridiculous.”
Lila crept over to me, wide-eyed. “Mommy was pretending.”
Emma frowned. “What?”
“You said it was no big deal,” Lila murmured, “but you kept whispering ‘oh no, oh no’ under your breath. I heard you.”
Emma gave a small laugh and covered her face with her hand. “Okay, you caught me.”
She turned to me, sheepish. “I didn’t want to scare her.”
“You didn’t,” Lila said seriously. “You just looked funny.”
The three of us laughed—not loud, but the kind of laugh that comes once the danger passes, when you realize everyone’s okay.
Emma shook her head. “I can’t believe she called you.”
“She was worried,” I said.
“She’s five,” Emma replied.
“She’s clever,” I countered.
Lila’s face lit up.
I didn’t tell them I’ve always been terrified of spiders myself. Bob used to take care of them. Now I just use the vacuum and pray.
Afterward, we made popcorn and sat in our pajamas around the kitchen island, eating by the handful and laughing at nothing in particular.
The bathroom door stayed closed. None of us were eager to check again.
That night, I stayed over. Emma offered, but it wasn’t necessary—I would have stayed no matter what.
Lila had already set up her sleeping bag in the guest room before I’d even finished brushing my teeth. I tucked her in, draping her favorite blanket over her shoulders.
Her curls were still slightly wild, her cheeks flushed from the evening’s drama.
She looked at me and whispered, “Next time, I’ll call before the spiders show up.”
I smiled and kissed her forehead. “Good plan.”
I didn’t admit that I probably would’ve screamed too. Some truths are just for the grown-ups.
As I sat on the bed watching her drift off, I thought about what love looks like. Sometimes it’s bedtime stories. Sometimes it’s a panicked phone call and running red lights. Sometimes it’s showing up when someone’s pretending they’re not afraid.
And sometimes, it’s just late-night snacks in the kitchen. Just us girls—figuring life out together.