My granddaughter Lily used to run straight into Grandpa Jim’s arms the second she walked through our door. So when she came to stay for a week and suddenly refused to hug him goodnight, I thought she was just tired—until she whispered to me in bed, “Grandma… he’s different.”
Lily had always adored my husband. She’d wrap her arms around his waist and proudly say, “I’m here,” like she was reporting for duty. He taught her to ride a bike, shuffle cards, whistle through her fingers. She wore his old baseball cap like a crown and called him her “favorite person.”
When my daughter Erin asked if Lily could stay with us for a week because of “complicated” work issues, we happily agreed.
The first three days were normal—pancakes, board games, Lily following Jim everywhere, narrating his coffee-making like it was a science lesson.
But on the fourth day, she grew quiet. At dinner she barely spoke. That night, when Jim waited for his usual hug, she stopped, looked at him, and shook her head.
“I’m sleepy,” she said, and walked away.
Later, tucked into bed, she looked up at me and whispered, “Grandma… he’s different.”