My granddaughter Lila never calls me herself—so when her little voice whispered, “Mommy’s pretending not to be scared,” I knew something was wrong. I drove to their house like my heart was on fire.
No one answered the door. It was unlocked. The house was dark. Quiet. Wrong. I followed the sound of running water to the bathroom—just as a scream tore through the silence.
I burst in. Emma was mid-battle, slamming the toilet lid with a mop, hair wild, eyes wide. Lila pointed to the ceiling like she’d seen a ghost.
“Spiders,” Emma panted. “Two. Huge.”
I nearly collapsed with relief—and a bit of leftover panic.
“I thought something awful happened,” I said. “Lila called me.”
“She used your phone,” I added. Emma blinked. “She called you over spiders?”
“She said you were pretending,” I said.
Emma sighed. “I didn’t want to scare her.”
“You didn’t,” Lila said. “You just looked… funny.”
We laughed—small, breathless laughter, the kind that comes when the fear is gone but not forgotten.
Later, we made popcorn in pajamas and curled up in the kitchen. The bathroom stayed closed.
That night, Lila whispered, “Next time, I’ll call before the spiders show up.”
“Good plan,” I smiled. I didn’t tell her I would’ve screamed too.
Sometimes love is dramatic phone calls and running red lights. Sometimes, it’s just showing up when someone’s pretending not to be scared.
And sometimes? It’s snacks in the kitchen, just us girls, getting through it together.
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