Shadows in the Sunroom: Emily’s Confession

“I don’t want to go inside,” I whispered, clutching the frayed straps of my backpack as the cicadas screamed from the sugar maple by the porch. My mom knelt next to me, her eyes tired. “Emily, your grandpa’s been asking about you all week. Grandma baked lemon squares. Let’s not make a scene.”

But I didn’t move. The sunroom window, half-fogged by the old air conditioner, framed my grandmother’s tight, gray silhouette. She never smiled, not really. Not at me. Not like Grandpa did—his big arms ready for a hug, his laugh like thunder after a drought. I remembered his stories about fishing on Lake Michigan, or how he taught me to ride my bike, running behind me on the cracked sidewalk. But Grandma? She’d only sigh, glance at me with those sharp, blue eyes, and mutter, “Sit up straight, Emily. Mind your manners.”

Mom squeezed my hand. “Emily, please. She’s just old-fashioned. Try to be nice.”

I wanted to believe her, that it was me, that if I tried harder, Grandma would thaw. But I was thirteen, and old enough to know that sometimes people just didn’t like you, even if you were family.

Inside, the air was heavy with Pine-Sol and lemon. Grandpa met me at the door, his voice booming, “There’s my Emmy!” He ruffled my hair, and for a second, the knot in my chest loosened. Then Grandma appeared, arms crossed, lips pressed together. “Shoes off at the door, Emily. You’re tracking in mud.”

I looked down—my sneakers were clean. Mom shot me a warning glance, so I obeyed. We gathered in the sunroom, where the family photos stared from every wall. My mom—blonde and beaming in her wedding dress beside my stepfather, Tom. Pictures of me, years younger, smiling with missing teeth. Pictures of Grandma and Grandpa, before his hair went white.

Grandpa poured sweet tea and nudged a plate toward me. “Eat up, kid. Lemon squares, your favorite.”

I reached for one, but Grandma’s hand shot out. “Those are for after dinner. We have rules here.”

I bit my tongue, my eyes burning.

After dinner, Grandpa sat next to me on the sagging couch. “You know, when your mom was your age, she used to sneak cookies from the jar. But your grandma would always catch her.”

Grandma, stacking plates in the kitchen, called out, “That’s because she was always too noisy. Emily, help me with the dishes.”

I followed her, my heart thumping. She washed, I dried. Silence stretched between us until I blurted, “Grandma, why don’t you ever smile at me?”

She froze, her hands in suds. “I’m not here to entertain you, Emily. Respect is earned.”

I swallowed hard, blinking back tears. I wanted to scream that I’d tried, that I’d always tried. But something about her voice—the way it cracked—stopped me.

That night, as I lay on the guest bed staring at the ceiling fan, I heard arguing downstairs. I crept to the landing, listening.

“She’s your granddaughter, for God’s sake!” Grandpa’s voice, raw and angry.

“Don’t you start, Bill. I do enough around here. I’m not her mother.”

“She’s a child, Linda. She just wants your kindness.”

A chair scraped. “You never said that when Tom’s kids were here,” Grandma spat. “You treat Emily like she’s porcelain. What about my own daughter? What about the way Tom looks at me?”

I pressed my back against the wall, heart pounding. Was she talking about my stepfather? What did he have to do with this?

The next morning, I found Grandpa in the garage, tinkering with the old lawnmower. “You okay, Emmy?” he asked softly.

I hesitated. “Grandpa… why doesn’t Grandma like me?”

He wiped his hands, looking away. “It’s not you. Your grandma… she’s had a hard life. Sometimes she forgets how to let people in.”

I wanted more, but I knew he wouldn’t say it. Family secrets are like poison—bitter, burning, never meant to be swallowed.

Back inside, Mom was packing. “We’re heading home early,” she said, voice tight. I saw the way she avoided Grandma’s eyes, the way she clutched her purse.

In the car, I asked, “Mom, do you know why Grandma’s so mean?”

She glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “She wasn’t always like this, Emily. After Grandpa’s heart attack… after Tom moved in… things changed. She never really forgave me for remarrying. Or maybe she just… lost her softness.”

We drove in silence, the fields blurring past. I thought about all the things unsaid in families. The pain we pass down, wordless and heavy. That night, I called Grandpa. He answered on the third ring.

“Emmy?”

“I love you, Grandpa.”

He was quiet a moment. “Love you too, kiddo. Don’t ever forget it.”

I hung up, feeling a little braver. Maybe I’d never get the answers I wanted. Maybe I’d never fix Grandma. But I could choose what I carried—and what I left behind.

Sometimes I wonder: is it possible to love someone and not forgive them? Or do we just keep pretending, hoping the silence will heal what words never could?