Last Friday, I asked her point-blank if the kids could come over just for the afternoon. She paused. Shifted on her porch. Then she said, "Oh, sweetheart, not this weekend. My kitchen’s being repainted. Too many fumes. Maybe next week?"
Except—when I drove past her house on the way to the store that afternoon, her windows were open. No ladders, no painters. Just her and the dog, sipping tea on the porch swing.
That night, I told my husband everything. Every excuse, every weird avoidance. He finally agreed it was… strange.
So I suggested something bold: we drop by unannounced. Nothing big—just a quick visit, say hi, let the kids hug their grandma. He reluctantly agreed.
Sunday afternoon, we pulled up to her house. Pia held a drawing she made just for Grandma, and Kellan had a dandelion bouquet clutched in his little fist.
But as we walked up the driveway, I spotted it. A small pair of pink sneakers on the porch. Not Pia’s.
Then came the sound—little feet running inside. And a voice. A child’s voice.
My husband and I exchanged a look. He knocked.
His mother answered a beat later, flustered, holding the door just barely open.
"Oh! I didn’t know you were coming. I… um… now’s not a good time."
Behind her, a small girl peeked around the corner.
"Grandma," she said sweetly, "can I have more juice?"
My heart dropped.
His mother’s eyes darted from us to the girl. "Go on, honey, I’ll be right there."
The door closed, but not before I caught it—the look of guilt. Of a secret finally caught in daylight.
We sat in the car in silence. My husband finally whispered, "That’s my brother’s daughter. I didn’t even know she was in town."
The truth spilled out later that night. She’d been babysitting her granddaughter from her estranged older son—our kids’ cousin. Her son had been struggling, apparently. Divorce, custody drama, maybe more. She’d promised to help keep things quiet.
“But why lie to us?” I asked.
"Because I didn’t want you to think I was choosing favorites," she said through tears. "And I knew you’d be hurt. But I didn’t know how to balance it all."
There were apologies. Long talks. Real talks.
Eventually, she invited all the cousins to spend time together. And you know what? They hit it off. Pia taught her cousin how to paint with glitter. Kellan taught her how to climb furniture.
And maybe—just maybe—my mother-in-law learned that honesty and trust are better than secrets and excuses.
Now, when she says, "Soon," it actually means something.
And there’s always enough juice for everyone.
