“She’s Pretending Not To Be Scared.”
My granddaughter never calls me on her own. Never.
But that night, she did.
Her little voice came through the phone, soft like a feather drifting down.
“Hi Grandma… can you take me sleep at your house tonight?”
I froze.
That was Lila’s voice—my five-year-old tornado of energy. Normally she’s loud and giggly, talking non-stop about unicorns, dragons, or outer space pirates. She doesn’t whisper. She never whispers.
But this time? Her voice was so quiet I had to press the phone tighter to my ear.
I tried to stay calm. “Of course, sweetie,” I said gently. “Is Mommy there?”
“Yes,” she whispered again. “But she’s pretending.”
Something inside me twisted.
I leaned forward on the couch, clutching my phone. “Pretending what, honey?”
“That she’s not scared.”
My breath caught.
“…Sweetheart, where is she now?”
“In the bathroom. The door is closed as—”
Click.
The call dropped.
Just like that. Gone.
Let me tell you who we are, because that moment didn’t just happen in a vacuum.
I’m Judy. Sixty-one. A tea lover. A widow. I bake pies when I’m nervous and knit scarves I never wear. I live in the same cozy house I’ve lived in for over thirty years. Everyone on my street knows me. I wave to the mailman. I leave soup on my neighbors’ porches in the winter.
My daughter, Emma, is 36. She’s strong, smart, and quiet like a snowy day. She works at the library and loves crossword puzzles. She doesn’t talk about her feelings much—or about Mike, her late husband.
He died in a car crash two years ago. It crushed her.
She hasn’t dated since. I don’t even think she’s tried. She puts everything into raising Lila. She’s the kind of mom who learns all the characters in Lila’s favorite cartoons and bakes cupcakes for school events even when no one asks her to.
I lost my husband, Bob, five years ago. A sudden stroke. He was gone before I could say goodbye.
Since then, it’s been us girls—Emma, Lila, and me.
We don’t live under one roof, but it feels like we do. Emma lives just ten minutes down the road. I’m at their house more than I’m at mine. Lila has pajamas, toys, and a toothbrush in my guest room. Emma brings me new books. I make her dinner when she’s too tired to cook. We hug in the kitchen and share quiet moments that only mothers and daughters understand.
That’s why, when Lila’s voice came through the phone like that—small, scared, too mature for her age—I knew something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
I stared at the phone in my hand like it might ring again. When it didn’t, I tapped redial. No answer. I tried again. Straight to voicemail.
“Emma?” I whispered out loud, as if saying her name would bring her closer. “Answer the phone.”
I sent a text next.
“Everything okay? Call me. Please.”
I waited.
Ten seconds.
That’s all I could take.
I jumped off the couch, grabbed my keys, and ran to the car like the house was on fire. My hands were shaking as I started the engine. The sun had dipped below the trees, turning the sky that eerie blue just before full dark. Streetlights flickered on, one by one. I barely noticed.
I flew down Broad Street, heart pounding in my ears. I didn’t stop at red lights. I didn’t care. Something was wrong. And my baby girl and her baby girl were in that house—alone.
I called again.
Voicemail.
I texted once more:
“Emma, please. Lila called me. I’m coming over.”
Still nothing.
Thoughts raced through my head faster than my car.
Is someone in the house? Did someone break in? Is Emma hurt? Is Lila hiding somewhere, scared out of her mind?
I kept hearing Lila’s tiny voice in my head. “She’s pretending.”
Pretending to be brave? Pretending it’s all okay? Pretending because someone else was there?
A car honked as I blew through another intersection. I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. My hands clutched the wheel so tight they started to go numb.
When you love someone that much, fear doesn’t wait politely. It charges in, knocking over every bit of calm you’ve ever built.
By the time I reached their driveway, my chest was tight. My legs were shaking.
The house was dark.
No porch light. No glow from the windows. Not even the soft nightlight Lila usually leaves on in the hallway.
That porch light is always on.
I parked halfway on the grass and ran to the door, knocking hard. My voice cracked as I called, “Emma? Lila?”
No answer.
I tried the knob. It turned.
The door was unlocked.
I stepped inside.
It was cold. Too cold. And silent.
The kind of silence that feels like it’s holding its breath.
The living room was empty. Lila’s favorite pink blanket was tossed on the couch. The curtains were shut tight. A forgotten cup of tea sat on the coffee table, cold.
I moved through the hallway. My shoes sounded loud. Too loud. Like I was disturbing something that wanted to stay hidden.
Then I heard it—water running. Somewhere in the back. The bathroom.
The door was closed.
My phone buzzed in my hand—finally. I snatched it up, hope leaping in my chest.
Spam.
“Are you kidding me?” I muttered.
I tiptoed closer to the bathroom. My heart thudded in my ears like a drum. I raised my hand to knock—
Then I heard it.
A scream.
High-pitched. From a child’s throat.
“Lila!”
I didn’t think. I didn’t breathe.
I kicked the door open—
And stopped in my tracks.
There, in a chaos of hair, towels, and panic, stood my daughter.
Emma was bent over the toilet, slamming the lid down with both hands like it was attacking her. She held a mop like a sword. Her hair had fallen out of its neat bun and was sticking to her forehead in sweaty strands.
Lila was in the corner, eyes like saucers, pointing at the ceiling as if she’d seen a ghost.
Both of them turned to me in shock.
“Mom?!” Emma gasped.
“Grandma!!” Lila cried, running toward me.
I scooped her up in my arms, heart still racing. “What in the world is going on?!”
Emma blinked like she was trying to understand what I was doing there. “Why are you—? What are you doing here?”
“You weren’t answering. Lila called me.”
Emma blinked again, like her brain was slowly catching up. “You thought…”
“I thought something terrible happened!” I said, nearly yelling from all the tension in my body.
Emma looked at the mop, then pointed at the toilet. “Well… something did happen.”
“What?” I said, still clutching Lila tightly.
She gave a small, embarrassed shrug.
“Two of them.”
“Two what?”
“Spiders,” she muttered. “Big ones. Like… tangerine-sized.”
I just stood there. Processing.
“Spiders?” I asked.
Emma nodded. “Yep.”
I felt my knees go weak. I might’ve sat down, or I might’ve just fallen upright.
“I drove here like a lunatic!” I said. “Ran two red lights! The house was dark! The call cut out! I thought—”
“She called you?” Emma interrupted, looking down at Lila.
“She used your phone,” I said. “Right before the call dropped.”
Emma let out a long breath and sat on the toilet lid like she’d run a marathon. “Oh, wow. Okay.”
The tension in the room didn’t disappear, but it loosened. A little.
Lila, still watching the ceiling suspiciously, crept over to me and whispered, “Mommy was pretending.”
Emma looked up. “What?”
“You said it was no big deal,” Lila said, her voice still small. “But you were whispering, ‘oh no, oh no,’ when you thought I couldn’t hear you.”
Emma let out a sheepish laugh and rubbed her forehead. “Okay. You caught me.”
She looked at me with a tired smile. “I didn’t want to scare her.”
“You didn’t,” Lila said proudly. “You just looked funny.”
We laughed then. A messy, shaky kind of laugh that only comes when you realize no one’s dying and the worst is over.
Emma shook her head. “I cannot believe she called you.”
“She was worried,” I said.
“She’s five!”
“She’s clever,” I said with a smile.
Lila beamed.
I didn’t tell them that I’m terrified of spiders too. Always have been. Always will be. My late husband, Bob, was the spider guy. He’d trap them in cups and take them outside like a hero. Now? I use the vacuum and say a prayer.
That night, we made popcorn and stayed in our pajamas. We sat around the kitchen island, munching handfuls of buttery popcorn and giggling like it was the best night ever.
No one opened the bathroom door again. It stayed sealed like a tomb.
I stayed the night, of course. Emma offered, but I would’ve stayed either way.
Lila dragged her sleeping bag into the guest room before I even finished brushing my teeth. I tucked her in with her favorite blanket, kissed her forehead, and sat beside her for a while.
Her cheeks were rosy. Her curls wild. Her voice soft as a whisper.
“Next time,” she said seriously, “I’ll call before the spiders show up.”
I grinned. “Good plan, honey.”
I didn’t tell her that I probably would’ve screamed louder than her mom.
Some secrets stay between grown-ups.
As she drifted off to sleep, I sat on the edge of the bed, thinking about love—how it shows up in quiet phone calls, in panicked drives, in popcorn-filled kitchens.
Love doesn’t wait for perfect timing. It doesn’t need an invitation.
Sometimes, it just shows up—even in the middle of a spider battle.
And sometimes, it’s just us girls, making it work.
