Behind the Boast: The Grandchild She Never Knew

“You know, my granddaughter Lindsey is practically a genius—they say she’s the brightest at her school. She won that spelling bee, what was it, three years in a row?”

My fork pauses mid-air. I stare at the mashed potatoes, feeling my cheeks burn. The laughter and clinking glasses around the big oak table drown out my silence. Everyone nods politely at Grandma Ruth, but I catch Mom’s eyes. She’s biting her lip, apologetic, as if she could shield me from the embarrassment.

It’s Thanksgiving, the one day we all pretend to be a happy family at Grandma’s sprawling house in the Connecticut suburbs. The whole place smells of nutmeg and turkey, but to me, it always carries a whiff of tension. Every year, Grandma turns the dinner into her personal awards ceremony, and I’m her favorite trophy. Never mind that the spelling bee was in elementary school, or that I’m now sixteen, struggling through AP Chemistry, and haven’t spoken to her about anything real in years.

“Lindsey, why don’t you tell everyone about your college plans?” she prods, her voice syrupy sweet. “You must have your pick of Ivy Leagues!”

My cousin Taylor snorts into her cranberry sauce. I want to melt into the chair. Dad tries to change the subject, but Grandma’s voice cuts through: “Don’t be shy, dear. Tell us!”

I force a smile, mumble something about maybe applying to UConn, and stare at my plate. Nobody asks how I’m really doing, if I like school, if I even want to go to college. Grandma’s pride is a shield, and I’m the shiny badge she polishes for her friends. But the truth is, she barely knows me. She never asks about my art, or the band I started with my friends, or the fact that I’ve been struggling with panic attacks for months.

After dinner, Mom finds me on the porch, shivering in the cold. She wraps an arm around me. “She doesn’t mean any harm, honey.”

I swallow hard. “She doesn’t even know me, Mom. She just…makes things up. I’m tired of being her show pony.”

Mom sighs, her breath curling in the November air. “She grew up with nothing. She thinks bragging about you proves she made it. Maybe it’s all she has.”

I want to be understanding, but resentment claws at me. I remember last year, when Grandma told her church friends I was ‘head of the math club’ (I’m not even a member), or when she cornered my best friend at my birthday party, demanding to know if I’d won any new awards. I always thought if I made her proud enough, maybe I’d feel seen. But here I am, invisible.

Back inside, the kitchen is chaos. Dishes clatter, football blares from the living room, and Grandma is in her element. She waves a gravy boat like a royal scepter, ordering my aunts and uncles, chattering about her famous stuffing. She catches my eye. “Lindsey! Come tell your Uncle Mark about the time you won the state science fair!”

“I didn’t win, Grandma. I just participated.”

She laughs it off. “Oh, modest as always!”

Something in me snaps. “Grandma, why do you always lie about me? You don’t even ask what I like, what I do. You just want to sound important.”

Her face falls. The room goes silent. My uncle drops a dish. Mom’s face turns white.

Grandma puts down the gravy boat. “Why would you say such a thing?”

I feel my throat tighten. “Because it’s true. You don’t know me. You never ask. You just…make stuff up! I’m tired of pretending.”

She stares at me, hurt, angry, small. For a moment, I see the cracks in her armor. “I only wanted to be proud of you,” she whispers.

Dad stands up. “Lindsey, maybe you should—”

“No, she’s right,” Grandma interrupts, her voice shaking. “Maybe I don’t know you. Maybe I never tried.”

The silence stretches. Taylor coughs. My baby cousin starts to cry.

I blink back tears. “I just want you to know me. Not…some perfect version.”

Grandma nods, her eyes glistening. “Come here, then.”

I walk to her, unsure. She hugs me, tighter than she ever has. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but real. She whispers, “Tell me about you. The real you. I want to listen.”

That night, after everyone leaves, I sit on my bed, replaying everything. The house is quiet, but my mind isn’t. I wonder: How many families are like ours—pretending, bragging, never really seeing each other? And what would happen if, just once, we told the truth instead of building castles out of stories?

If you were in my shoes, would you forgive her? Or would you finally ask to be seen, not just praised?