This past summer, my 13-year-old granddaughter, Lily, stayed with us for a few weeks. My husband and I were so excited to have her. She had always been a sweet, well-behaved girl, and it had been a while since we’d spent some real time together. When she arrived, she seemed just as thrilled, her big smile lighting up the house as she came running through the door.
“Grandma! Grandpa!” she exclaimed, giving us both tight hugs. Lily was growing up quickly, taller and more independent, but still the same girl who loved baking cookies with me and listening to Grandpa’s stories.
After greeting her, I helped carry her suitcase to the guest room. She was already darting around the house, full of energy, talking about her summer plans. I figured I’d start unpacking her suitcase to help her settle in. But as soon as I opened it, my heart nearly stopped.
Right on top of her neatly folded clothes, nestled among books and some makeup, was a pack of cigarettes.
I stood there, stunned. My sweet Lily? With cigarettes? It felt like a mistake—maybe she had picked them up accidentally, or they belonged to someone else. But the pit in my stomach told me otherwise. I zipped the suitcase back up quickly, unsure of how to handle this.
I called my daughter, Sarah, right away.
“Mom, what’s wrong?” she asked, hearing the tension in my voice. I explained what I had found, and after a moment of silence, Sarah sighed.
“Oh, Mom… I was afraid of this,” she admitted. “We caught her with cigarettes once before. We thought it was a phase, but I guess she’s still hiding them.”
I felt a mix of emotions—shock, concern, even a bit of anger. How had we missed this? How had Lily, such a good kid, gotten into something like this?
“I’ll talk to her,” Sarah assured me. “But please, don’t be too hard on her. She’s going through a tough time at school, and I think she’s just trying to fit in.”
After hanging up, I sat on the bed, processing everything. I could see Lily outside, running around in the backyard, completely unaware of the turmoil I was feeling. I knew I needed to address the situation, but I didn’t want to overreact.
Later that evening, I asked Lily to sit with me on the porch. As the sun set, casting a warm glow over the yard, I gently brought up what I had found. Her face fell, and she looked down, mumbling, “I wasn’t going to use them, Grandma. I promise.”
My heart softened as I saw the fear and embarrassment in her eyes. I put my arm around her and assured her I wasn’t mad, but I wanted to understand why she had them.
After a pause, she opened up about the pressure she had been facing at school. Some kids had been teasing her, calling her “too good” and “boring.” She didn’t want to smoke but carrying the cigarettes made her feel like she could fit in and stand up to the teasing.
I listened quietly and then hugged her tight. “You don’t need those cigarettes, Lily. You’re perfect just the way you are. Real friends will like you for being yourself, not for pretending to be someone else.”
She nodded, wiping away a tear. “I know, Grandma. I don’t want to be like them. I just didn’t know how else to handle it.”
We talked for a while, and I could feel the heaviness in my heart start to ease. I handed her the pack of cigarettes and asked what she wanted to do with them. Without hesitation, Lily threw them in the trash.
The rest of the summer was spent just like old times—baking cookies, watching movies, and laughing together. By the time she left, I felt she had gained a little more confidence and knew she didn’t have to change herself to fit in.
It wasn’t the summer I had imagined, but it was one I’ll never forget.
