When my five-year-old granddaughter Lila called me late one night asking if she could sleep over, I knew something was wrong.

Lila never calls on her own—and she never whispers. But that night, her tiny voice was quiet and serious. “Is Mommy there?” I asked.

“Yes,” she whispered. “But she’s pretending.” “Pretending what, baby?” “That she’s not scared.” Then the line went dead. I couldn’t reach my daughter Emma,

so I grabbed my keys and rushed over. No porch light. Front door unlocked. The house was still and eerie. I called out—no

answer—until I heard the faint sound of running water and a sudden scream from the bathroom I burst in to find Emma gripping a mop,

Lila cowering in the corner, and both looking like they’d survived a disaster. Turns out, they had: two huge spiders had

dropped from the ceiling, and Emma had panicked. “She said it was no big deal,” Lila whispered to me, “but I heard her say

‘oh no’ a bunch of times.” Emma laughed, admitting defeat, and we all ended up in the kitchen, eating popcorn in our pajamas. That night,

I stayed over. Lila snuggled into her sleeping bag and whispered, “Next time, I’ll call before the spiders show up.”Love is funny like that.

Sometimes it’s fairy tales and hugs. Sometimes it’s racing through the dark because someone’s pretending to be brave.

And sometimes, it’s just knowing exactly who to call when the spiders come.