I was so excited to have Lily, my 13‑year‑old granddaughter, stay with us for the summer. She’d always been such a sweet, thoughtful kid, and I couldn’t wait to spend some quality time together.

When she arrived, she was bouncing off the walls with energy, running through the house like she used to when she was little.

“Lily, honey, why don’t you go explore while I unpack for you?” I suggested, grabbing her suitcase.

“Thanks, Grandma!” she called over her shoulder, already halfway down the hall.

I lugged the suitcase up to the guest room, smiling to myself. It would be so nice to have a young person in the house again, someone to fill it with laughter and life. I unzipped the bag, expecting to find the usual things—clothes, books, maybe that old teddy bear she used to carry everywhere.

What I saw instead made me freeze. Right on top were tiny crop tops that looked more like handkerchiefs than shirts. And the shorts? So short they might as well have been underwear.

I dug deeper, hoping I was mistaken. Out came makeup palettes, perfume, and a pair of sky‑high platform shoes. My heart sank. This couldn’t be my Lily. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the contents of the suitcase, trying to process it all.

After a few minutes, I knew I had to call Emily, my daughter. With shaky fingers, I dialed.

“Hey, Mom! How’s Lily settling in?” Emily answered cheerfully.

“Emily, we need to talk,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “I found some things in Lily’s suitcase. Crop tops, short shorts, makeup—”

There was a pause, then a soft sigh. “Oh, Mom. I know it seems shocking, but it’s not a big deal. All her friends dress like that.”

I felt my jaw drop. “Not a big deal? Emily, she’s thirteen!”

“Times have changed, Mom,” Emily said gently, with that patient tone she used when she thought I was being old‑fashioned. “Lily’s just expressing herself. The makeup is just for fun.”

I rubbed my forehead, feeling a headache coming on. “But don’t you think she’s growing up too fast?”

“Mom, relax,” Emily said. “Lily’s a good kid. She knows her boundaries. Let her have some fun, okay?”

After we hung up, I sat there for a long time, trying to wrap my head around it. Was I really that out of touch?

Over the next few days, I watched Lily like a hawk. She wore those crop tops and shorts, experimented with makeup, and spent hours giggling over her phone. But she was still my Lily—laughing at her grandfather’s bad jokes, helping me in the garden, sitting cross‑legged on the porch telling me about her friends.

One evening, George frowned as he watched Lily texting, dressed in one of those outfits.

“Nora,” he whispered, “don’t you think we should say something?”

I sighed. “I already talked to Emily. She says it’s normal now.”

George shook his head. “Doesn’t seem right to me.”

That night, I decided I needed to talk to Lily. I knocked on her door and found her curled up on the bed, nose in a book.

“Lily, honey? Can we talk?”

She looked up, smiling. “Sure, Grandma. What’s up?”

I sat on the edge of the bed. “I wanted to talk about your… new style.”

Lily’s face fell a little. “You don’t like it?”

“It’s not that,” I said quickly. “I’m just surprised. It seems very grown‑up for someone your age.”

Lily hugged her knees. “I know it’s different from what I used to wear. But all my friends dress like this now. I just wanted to fit in, you know?”

I nodded, remembering how important that had been when I was her age. “I understand, sweetie. But you know you don’t have to change yourself to fit in, right?”

She nodded softly. “I know. But it’s fun to try new things sometimes.”

“I get that,” I said, smiling. “When I was your age, I begged my mom to let me wear go‑go boots. She thought they were scandalous.”

Lily giggled. “Really? You?”

“Oh yes,” I laughed. “I thought I was very cool.”

We talked for a while longer, sharing stories and laughing. As I got up to leave, Lily called out, “Grandma?”

I turned back. “Yes, honey?”

“I’m still me, you know,” she said softly. “Even if I look different sometimes.”

A lump formed in my throat. “I know, sweetie. I know.”

The next morning, I found Lily in the kitchen helping George with breakfast. She was wearing one of her new outfits, but she’d thrown one of my old cardigans over it.

“Morning, Grandma!” she chirped. “Want some pancakes?”

I smiled, warmth spreading through me. “I’d love some, honey.”

As I watched her and George banter over the proper way to flip a pancake, I realized something. The clothes, the makeup—they were just the outside. The Lily I loved was still there, underneath it all.

Sure, I still worried. What grandparent doesn’t? But I also felt a glimmer of pride. Lily was growing up, finding her own way. And maybe, just maybe, that was okay.

“Hey, Grandma?” Lily’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Can you show me how to make your famous apple pie today?”

I grinned. “Of course, sweetie. Right after breakfast.”

The rest of the morning flew by in a whirlwind of flour, apples, and laughter. Lily was a natural in the kitchen, her nimble fingers quickly mastering the art of peeling apples.

“So, Grandma,” Lily said as she carefully placed the top crust on the pie, “tell me more about those go‑go boots.”

I chuckled, dusting flour off my hands. “Oh, they were something else. White vinyl, up to my knees. Your great‑grandmother nearly had a fit.”

Lily’s eyes widened. “Did you wear them to school?”

“I sure did,” I said, grinning. “Thought I was the bee’s knees.”

“The what now?” Lily giggled.

“You know,” I waved my hand, “it means I thought I was really cool.”

As the pie baked, filling the house with the sweet smell of cinnamon and apples, Lily and I sat at the table, swapping stories. She told me about her friends, her favorite classes, even the boy she had a crush on—though she made me promise not to tell her mom.

“You know,” I said as I pulled the golden‑brown pie out of the oven, “I might have some old photos of me in those go‑go boots somewhere. Want to see?”

Lily’s face lit up. “Yes, please!”

We spent the afternoon digging through old photo albums, laughing at the fashions of years gone by. Lily roared with laughter at George’s handlebar mustache from the ’70s.

“Oh my gosh, Grandpa,” she giggled, “what were you thinking?”

George ruffled her hair. “Hey now, that was very stylish back then.”

As the sun began to set, I watched Lily curled up on the couch, photo album in her lap, my cardigan around her shoulders. In that moment, I felt something shift inside me.

Yes, Lily was growing up. Yes, the world was changing. But at her core, she was still that curious, kind‑hearted girl I’d always known. The clothes, the makeup—they were just part of her journey.

That night, as we sat down to dinner with the lingering scent of apple pie in the air, Lily caught my eye and smiled, a smudge of flour still on her cheek.

“Thanks for today, Grandma,” she said softly. “It was really fun.”

I reached out and squeezed her hand. “Anytime, sweetheart. Anytime.”

Later, as George and I got ready for bed, he asked, “Feeling better about things?”

I smiled. “You know, I think I am. Lily’s growing up, but she’s still our Lily.”

And as I drifted off to sleep, I felt grateful—grateful for the time we’d shared, grateful for the reminder that beneath all the changes, people stay who they are at heart. All we really need to offer is patience, love, and maybe a slice of apple pie.