My five-year-old granddaughter Lila never calls me—so when her tiny voice whispered, “Mommy’s pretending not to be scared,”
I knew something was wrong.She said Emma, my daughter, was in the bathroom. Then the call dropped.I texted,
called—no answer. I panicked. Jumped in the car and sped across town,
heart pounding. The house was dark. Unlocked. Silent. I rushed in calling their names—nothing.Then I heard a scream.
I burst into the bathroom, breath frozen.Emma stood over the toilet, wielding a mop. Lila pointed to the ceiling,
wide-eyed. Spiders. Giant ones, apparently.I nearly collapsed with relief.Turns out,
Emma had been trying to act brave. But Lila had seen right through her. “She was pretending,”
she told me solemnly.Later, we made popcorn in our pajamas. Laughed in the kitchen. Lila promised to,
call before the next spider crisis.Sometimes, love looks like bedtime stories. And sometimes,
it’s dropping everything the second someone whispers, “I’m scared.”
