My granddaughter never calls me by herself. Not once. That’s why, the moment I heard her tiny voice whisper, “Mommy’s pretending not to be scared,” I knew—I just knew—something was terribly wrong.
And what I found when I got to the house?
It stopped me cold in the doorway. My heart was pounding so hard I thought I might faint.
“Hi Grandma… can you take me sleep at your house tonight?”
Her voice was soft. Too soft.
I froze.
That wasn’t Lila. Not my Lila. Not the giggly five-year-old who runs through sprinklers, tells wild stories about space pirates and unicorns, and sings loudly even when no one’s listening. Not the little girl with bouncy blonde curls and a grin that shows off her missing front teeth.
She never calls me. Not on her own.
But that night, she did.
“Of course, sweetie,” I said, keeping my voice calm even though my chest was tight. “Is Mommy there?”
“Yes,” Lila whispered, “but she’s pretending.”
My spine straightened.
“Pretending what, sweetheart?”
“That she’s not scared.”
That was all I needed to hear. My heart clenched like someone had gripped it in their fist.
“…Where is she now, honey?”
“In the bathroom. The door is closed as—”
The call dropped.
Let me tell you who we are, so you understand why I moved so fast.
My name’s Judy. I’m sixty-one. I’ve been a widow for five years. I live in the same cozy house I’ve lived in for over thirty. I drink too much tea, worry too much about everything, and I love my family more than anything in the world.
My daughter, Emma, is thirty-six. She’s smart. Kind. Quiet. She works at the local library and is always doing crossword puzzles. But she doesn’t talk much about her feelings. And she never talks about her husband, Mike, who died in a car crash two years ago.
She hasn’t dated since. She says she’s okay. I think she’s still healing.
I lost my husband, Bob, to a stroke. One moment he was here, and the next… gone. I didn’t even make it to the hospital in time.
So now, it’s just us girls.
Emma. Lila. And me.
We don’t live together, but we might as well. I’m at their house more than I’m at mine. Lila has a drawer full of pajamas and crayons at my place. We bake together. Share meals. Share hugs. Share tired smiles.
That’s how I knew something was off.
Lila’s voice on that call? It wasn’t right. It was too quiet. Too serious. Like she was trying to be a grown-up.
And those words—“She’s pretending.”
My hands trembled as I stared at my phone screen. The call was gone. I hit redial.
No answer.
Again. Straight to voicemail.
“Emma?” I said out loud, as if she could hear me. “Pick up the phone. Please.”
I typed fast.
“Everything okay? Call me. Please.”
Nothing. I counted to ten. That’s all I could stand.
I grabbed my purse, slipped on my shoes with shaking hands, and raced out the door.
The sky was turning dark, that deep blue right before the stars show up. The streetlights flickered on like blinking eyes. I barely noticed them.
I jumped in the car and gripped the steering wheel like it was my lifeline.
Ran a red light at Broad and 7th.
Didn’t care.
My brain wouldn’t stop.
Is someone in the house? Is Emma hurt? Is Lila hiding in a closet?
I hit redial again. Still nothing.
Another text.
“Emma, please. Lila called me. I’m coming over.”
Still no reply.
I was driving like a madwoman, but I couldn’t slow down. The fear was in the driver’s seat now, pushing me forward.
That voice… Lila’s voice. It haunted me. So soft. So grown.
“Mommy’s pretending…”
Pretending to be fine? Pretending to be brave?
Or pretending in front of someone else?
Another honking car. Another red light ignored.
By the time I reached their street, my heart was slamming in my chest like a warning drum.
I pulled into their driveway—fast. Half on the grass, tires squealing. The house was dark.
No porch light.
That porch light is always on.
My panic exploded. I jumped out of the car, ran to the door, and knocked once before trying the knob.
It turned.
Unlocked.
I pushed it open. “Emma?” I called into the silence.
No answer.
“Lila?”
Still nothing.
The air was cold inside. The living room looked normal at first glance. Curtains closed. Lila’s favorite pink blanket draped over the couch like she’d just been there.
But something felt wrong. That heavy kind of quiet. The kind that makes your skin crawl.
I crept down the hallway. My shoes clicked too loudly against the floor.
Water.
I could hear water running. Somewhere at the back of the house.
The bathroom.
I moved closer.
Suddenly, my phone buzzed. I jumped.
Spam call.
“Ugh!” I hissed.
The water kept running. My stomach was in knots. I stepped toward the bathroom door, hand raised to knock—
And then I heard it.
A scream.
High-pitched. Sharp. From a little girl’s throat.
Lila.
I didn’t think. I didn’t breathe. I just threw the door open—
And stopped cold.
Emma was hunched over the toilet, slamming the lid down like it had insulted her. Her messy bun was falling apart. She was gripping a mop like a baseball bat.
Lila was in the corner, eyes wide like saucers, pointing up at the ceiling like she’d seen a ghost.
They both spun around like I’d crashed into their secret hideout.
“Mom!” Emma yelped.
“Grandma!” Lila squealed.
I stood in the doorway, breathless. “What on earth is happening?!”
Emma blinked, stunned. “Why are you—wait, what are you doing here?”
“You weren’t answering,” I said, voice trembling. “Lila called me. The call dropped. I thought—” I had to swallow before I could speak again. “I thought something terrible happened.”
Emma looked down at the mop in her hands and sighed. “Something did happen.”
She pointed at the toilet. “Two of them.”
I stared at her. “Two what?”
“Spiders,” she said. “Big ones.”
I blinked.
“Spiders?”
Emma nodded, serious as ever. “Tangerine-sized.”
I felt my knees go weak. I’d just raced across town like a woman in a movie, and it was because of… spiders?
I let out a shaky laugh. “I thought someone broke in.”
“You thought what?” Emma asked.
“Lila said you were scared! And then she went silent! The house is dark! You weren’t answering!”
Emma looked at Lila, who was still frozen, finger pointing up.
“She called you?” Emma said.
“She used your phone,” I nodded. “Right before it cut out.”
Emma groaned and sat down on the toilet lid, looking like she’d just run a marathon. “Wow.”
My hands were still trembling. The tension hadn’t left the room.
Lila crept across the floor to me, eyes still big. She looked up and whispered, “Mommy was pretending.”
Emma turned. “What?”
“You said it was no big deal,” Lila said, “but you were whispering ‘oh no, oh no’ while you held the mop. I heard you.”
Emma sighed and laughed, covering her face. “Okay, fine. You caught me.”
She looked at me, sheepish. “I didn’t want to scare her.”
“You didn’t,” Lila said proudly. “You just looked… funny.”
We all started laughing. Not a big, loud laugh. Just the kind that comes out when you realize everyone’s safe and your heart can finally slow down.
Emma shook her head. “I can’t believe she called you.”
“She was worried,” I said.
“She’s five!”
“She’s clever,” I replied.
Lila stood tall and beamed.
I didn’t tell them I’m terrified of spiders too. Always have been. Always will be. Bob used to take care of them. These days, I just vacuum them up and say a prayer.
We made popcorn after that. Sat around the kitchen island in our pajamas, tossing popcorn into our mouths, laughing at nothing in particular.
None of us went near the bathroom again. The door stayed shut.
Later that night, I stayed over. Emma offered, but she didn’t need to. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Lila dragged her sleeping bag into the guest room before I could even finish brushing my teeth. I tucked her in and pulled her favorite fuzzy blanket up to her chin.
Her curls were still wild. Her cheeks pink from all the excitement.
She looked up at me and whispered, “Next time… I’ll call before the spiders show up.”
I smiled and kissed her forehead. “That’s a great plan, honey.”
I didn’t tell her that I probably would’ve screamed, too. Some grown-up secrets are meant to stay secret.
As I sat on the edge of the bed, watching her fall asleep, I realized something.
Love doesn’t always look like hearts and hugs. Sometimes, love is answering the phone at the first whisper of fear. It’s breaking speed limits and bursting through doors. It’s popcorn at midnight and hiding from spiders together.
And sometimes?
It’s just us girls—laughing, surviving, and being brave… together.
