Her Truth, My Lies

The Notebook of Kind Lies

The first time I lied to my grandmother, I cried in the bathroom afterward. It felt like dropping a heavy stone into a deep, still pond. The ripples haven’t stopped yet.

Her name was Eleanor. She smelled like peppermints and lavender soap. She taught me how to plant tomatoes and cheat at card games. She was the warmest person I knew. Then, slowly, like sand slipping through fingers, she began to forget.

It started small. Forgetting where she put her glasses. Calling me by my mother’s name. Then came bigger things. She forgot her address. She forgot what year it was. She forgot that Grandpa Joe had passed away five years before. That’s when the lies began.

We called it “redirecting.” A nicer word for lying.

“Grandma,” I’d say gently, holding her shaking hands after she asked for Joe for the tenth time that morning, “he’s gone fishing up at Silver Lake. Remember? He’ll be back next week. He told you not to worry.”
Her worried face would soften. “Oh, yes. Silver Lake. He loves it there.”
Relief. A small kindness. But the lie burned my throat.

Then, I found the notebook.

It was tucked beneath a stack of yellowed quilts in her old cedar chest. A simple spiral notebook, the kind kids use for school. On the cover, in her once-beautiful, flowing script: *Things I Must Remember*.
My heart cracked a little. Inside, it was worse.

The entries weren’t lists of birthdays or recipes. They were desperate attempts to anchor herself in a world that kept changing shape. Dates were jumbled. Words were scribbled out. Sentences trailed off. But the fear was clear.

*Page 12: “The man in the blue suit came again today. He says he’s my son. He looks kind. But my son is little. He has red hair and builds forts in the living room. Where is my little boy? Did I lose him?”*

*(My father, her son, has grey hair now).*

*Page 34: “Why is the sky different? It feels lower. Did they move the mountains? I told Martha but she just patted my hand. Martha is my sister. She lives in Ohio. Or did she move? I think she’s mad at me.”*

*(Aunt Martha died fifteen years ago).*

*Page 57: “The pretty girl visits. She calls me Grandma. She brings cookies. Peanut butter. My favorite? I think so. She looks sad sometimes. Did I hurt her? I hope not. I don’t remember hurting anyone. But maybe I did.”*

*(That was me. Bringing peanut butter cookies. Her favorite).*

Reading it felt like trespassing. Like reading someone’s diary during a thunderstorm. Each page was a glimpse into her crumbling world – a world where mountains moved, loved ones changed faces, and she lived with the constant, quiet terror of having done something wrong, of being lost, of *being* wrong.

The notebook changed things. It wasn’t just about redirecting anymore. It was about stepping into *her* world. About speaking her language. The notebook showed me the landmarks in her shifting landscape.

When she pointed at the window and whispered, “The little birds are back! They sing the song about the daffodils!” I didn’t correct her. (It was December. Snow fell silently outside). Instead, I sat beside her. “They do! It’s such a pretty song, isn’t it? Your favorite.”
Her smile was pure sunshine. “Yes. My favorite.”

When she fretted about missing her train to Cincinnati to see her mother, I didn’t remind her the train station closed decades ago, or that her mother passed away when I was a baby. I checked my watch. “Plenty of time, Grandma. Your train isn’t until after lunch. Let’s have some tea first.” The panic in her eyes faded. “Tea sounds lovely, dear. With honey?”

The lies weren’t malicious. They were bridges. Made from scraps of her own vanishing memories, built carefully over the chasms of confusion her mind couldn’t cross. They weren’t about hiding the truth *from* her. They were about protecting the truth *inside* her – the truth of feeling safe, loved, and unafraid.

The biggest lie came near the end.

She was very frail. Sitting by the window, tracing patterns on the foggy glass. Her voice was a dry leaf rustling. “Was I… was I a good mother?”
Memories flooded me. Her patience when I spilled paint on her new rug. Her fierce hugs when I scraped my knee. The way she sang off-key lullabies. The time she walked three miles in the rain because I forgot my lunchbox.
But also… the sharp words when she was tired. The forgotten school play. The promises sometimes broken by grown-up worries.

The truth was messy. Human.

I took her papery hand. Looked into her cloudy, anxious eyes. Saw the little girl lost in the shifting mountains of her own mind, afraid she hadn’t been good enough.
“Oh, Grandma,” I said, my voice thick, squeezing her hand gently. “You were the *best* mother. Truly. Kind. Patient. So loving. Everyone says so.”
It wasn't the whole truth. But it was the truth she needed to hear. The only truth that mattered in that moment, in *her* world.

A tear slipped down her wrinkled cheek. Not of sadness, but relief. A deep, shuddering sigh escaped her. “Oh, good. I’m so glad. I worried… sometimes.”
She closed her eyes, a small, peaceful smile touching her lips. “I just wanted… to be good.”

She fell asleep like that, holding my hand. I cried then. Not for the lies, but for the fierce, imperfect love they protected. For the mother she remembered being, and the grandmother she truly was.

The notebook sits on my shelf now, next to a little jar of dried lavender. I don’t see it as a record of loss anymore. It’s a map. A map of a beautiful, bewildering country she traveled through, a place where mountains moved and little birds sang in the snow. My lies weren't a betrayal. They were my compass, helping me navigate *her* world. They were the language I learned to speak so she wouldn’t feel alone.

Sometimes, the kindest truth isn't the fact. It's the love you wrap it in. It’s speaking the words that bring peace, not pain. It’s building a bridge, however fragile, back to the light in their eyes. Even if the only light left is the one your love reflects back at them. Especially then.
Grandma forgot so much. But in her final days, she remembered she was loved. And maybe, just maybe, that was the only memory strong enough to outlast all the rest. That was the truth worth bending the world for.