Let me explain.
I’m Judy. Sixty-one, recently retired, tea drinker, worrier. I’ve lived on the same quiet street for three decades.
My daughter Emma is 36. Smart, kind, and a little reserved. She works at the local library and hasn’t been quite the same since her husband, Mike, died in a crash two years ago. She’s strong, but grief changes you.
Emma doesn’t share much. But I see her. And I know my girls.
We’re close—Emma, Lila, and me. We don’t live together, but we might as well. Lila’s got pajamas at my place and I bring over casseroles like clockwork.
So when Lila called me—whispered to me—I knew something wasn’t right.
I tried calling back. No answer. Straight to voicemail. I texted:
“Is everything okay? Please call me.”
Nothing.
Ten seconds passed. That was all I could take.
I grabbed my keys and drove. The sky was turning dark. Streetlights flickered on. I barely noticed. I ran a red light. Didn’t care. Called again. Still nothing.
My thoughts were racing faster than the car.
Was someone in the house? Was Emma hurt? Was Lila hiding?
Her voice played over in my head. That strange, quiet tone:
“She’s pretending.”
I arrived. Their house was dark. No porch light—a detail that screamed at me. Emma always leaves the light on.
I ran to the door. It was unlocked.
“Emma?” I called into the silence.
Nothing.
“Lila?”
Still no answer.
The house felt cold. Too quiet. The living room looked recently used—Lila’s favorite blanket tossed on the couch.
Down the hall, I heard water running. The bathroom.
I crept closer. My phone buzzed in my hand. I looked down—spam. I almost screamed.
I raised my hand to knock—
And then I heard Lila scream.
I didn’t think. I burst through the door.
And froze.
Emma was clutching a mop, standing over the toilet, swatting like she was battling for her life. Her bun was unraveling, and she looked completely overwhelmed.
Lila was in the corner, pointing at the ceiling like she’d seen a ghost.
They both turned toward me, startled.
“Mom!” Emma gasped.
“Grandma!” Lila cried.
I couldn’t breathe. “What’s going on?!”
Emma blinked, still holding the mop. “Why are you here?”
“Lila called me,” I said. “Then the call dropped. You weren’t answering. I thought…”
Emma looked at the mop, then at the toilet.
“There were two,” she said.
“Two what?”
“Spiders,” she muttered. “Huge ones.”
I just… stared at her.
“I drove here like a maniac,” I said. “I thought someone broke in.”
Emma collapsed onto the closed toilet lid. Lila remained in the corner, still wide-eyed.
“You used my phone?” Emma asked Lila.
“She did,” I said. “Right before the line cut out.”
Emma covered her face. “This is ridiculous.”
Lila tiptoed over to me. She looked up and said softly, “Mommy was pretending.”
Emma sighed. “I didn’t want to scare her.”
“You didn’t,” Lila said proudly. “You just looked funny.”
We all laughed. That kind of shaky laugh that comes after panic has passed.
“She’s five,” Emma said, still a bit dazed.
“She’s clever,” I replied.
Lila grinned.
I didn’t mention that I’m terrified of spiders, too. Bob—my late husband—used to handle them. These days, I rely on the vacuum and nerves of steel.
That night, we made popcorn and sat in the kitchen in pajamas, laughing about nothing and everything.
The bathroom door stayed shut. None of us had the nerve to check.
I ended up staying over. Lila had already dragged her sleeping bag into the guest room. I tucked her in and kissed her forehead.
“Next time,” she whispered, “I’ll call before the spiders come.”
“Good plan,” I smiled.
I didn’t tell her I probably would’ve screamed too. Some truths are just for adults.
As I sat watching her fall asleep, I thought: love shows up in strange ways. In panicked phone calls. In slamming doors. In popcorn and late-night laughs.
And sometimes, it just means being there when someone’s pretending to be brave.
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