My 11-year-old cousin doesn’t laugh much anymore, and I don’t know what to do
I was over at my aunt’s house this past Sunday, helping her put up new curtains in the guest room. The whole place smelled like lemon Pledge and the chocolate chip cookies she’d baked for the book club she goes to on Tuesdays. Lila was camped on the living room couch like she always is these days, her neon pink phone (the one I got her for her 10th birthday, popsocket cracked and hanging half off the back) propped up on a throw pillow, face lit up blue from the screen. I hadn’t seen her in three weeks, so I leaned in the doorway and asked if she still wanted that mint chocolate chip ice cream from the place downtown with the sprinkles that taste like cake batter—you know the one, we used to go every time I visited, back when she’d beg me to stay past 9 so we could watch bad Disney Channel movies. She just shrugged, didn’t look up, and said “Nah, maybe later.” Later never came, of course. I left at 6, and she was still on that same couch, same position.
I know, I know. 11 is weird. It’s that awful in-between age where you’re too old for toys and too young to drive, all hormones and weird awkwardness that makes you snap at everyone for no reason. I was 11 once, I remember. I dyed my hair blue with Kool-Aid and refused to talk to my mom for three days because she wouldn’t let me get a belly button ring. I was moody as hell. But this feels different. Or maybe I’m just romanticizing my own childhood, who knows. When I was 11, smartphones weren’t really a thing for pre-teens. I had a flip phone that only texted and called, and I spent most of my afternoons riding my bike around the neighborhood with my best friend, stealing lemonade from people’s driveways and hunting for four-leaf clovers in the empty lot down the street. Lila’s afternoons are just… screen. I counted once, when I was waiting for my aunt to find her purse, she’d been on TikTok for two and a half hours straight without getting up to get a glass of water or pet her dog.
Mabel, the golden retriever puppy she begged my aunt and uncle for for two full years. She used to sleep with Mabel in her bed when she was tiny, bring her everywhere around the house, dress her up in little doll dresses. Now, when Mabel trots over to nudge Lila’s hand for pets, Lila just shoves her away and says “not now Mabel.” It makes Mabel slump back to her bed, and it makes my chest hurt a little, every time.
A couple months ago, she left her phone on the kitchen counter when she went to take Mabel out for a walk. I didn’t mean to snoop, I swear, I was just grabbing a soda and a notification popped up for Instagram. I glanced over, and I saw she’d just commented on a popular 12-year-old influencer’s post: “u look so skinny i wish i looked like that” and then deleted it 10 seconds later. She’s 11. She’s a tiny thing, like 80 pounds soaking wet, already self-conscious about her body before she’s even finished middle school. That hit me like a punch to the gut.
I mentioned it, sort of, a couple weeks ago, when we were doing dishes after dinner. I said I was worried Lila spends too much time online, that she seems kind of down. My aunt just wiped a plate and shrugged and said “All kids are like that now. She gets straight A’s, she doesn’t get in trouble, what more do you want? I was a moody pre-teen too, give it time.” And I didn’t push it. What was I supposed to say? It’s not my kid. I’m just the older cousin, 13 years older than her, what do I know? I don’t want to overstep, I don’t want my aunt to think I’m criticizing her parenting. But it feels wrong to just say nothing and watch her shrink into herself, y’know?
She used to make me friendship bracelets every time I visited, all lopsided and way too tight, and I still wear the blue one she made me three years ago on my keychain. I asked her a month ago if she wanted to go to that paint-your-own-pottery place by the mall, the one with the cat mugs she kept saying she wanted to paint. She looked at me like I’d just suggested we go lick a public bathroom wall and said “That’s for little kids.” I laughed it off, but it stung. Not just for me, for her. When did she get too old for dumb, fun stuff like that?
I tried to follow her finsta, actually. I heard her telling her friend on the phone once that she only lets people her age follow it, that she doesn’t let any adults in. I figured I’d ask anyway, sent the request. It’s still pending. I don’t blame her, honestly. If I was her, I wouldn’t let my dorky older cousin see all my weird teen thoughts either. But I wonder sometimes what she posts there. If she’s saying how she really feels, or if she’s just putting on that same cool, unbothered front she wears for everyone IRL.
Last week I stopped by after work, brought her a pack of those sour gummy worms she used to beg me to bring every time. She was at soccer practice, so I left them on her desk with a little note that said “Save me one.” I was there Sunday, and they were still sitting on her desk, half unopened. I don’t know if she forgot, or if she just doesn’t like them anymore. People change, right? Kids grow up. But I can’t shake this tight feeling in my chest when I see her sitting alone on that couch, quiet, not laughing the way she used to. She used to laugh so hard she’d snort, at the dumbest things. I can’t remember the last time I heard her snort-laugh.
I don’t know what to do. If I push her to open up, she’ll just shut down. If I keep bugging my aunt about it, she’ll get annoyed. I just… I keep hoping one day she’ll text me out of the blue, like she used to when she was 9, 12 photos of a stray cat she saw on the way to school, or a weird lumpy rock she found, asking me what I think. It’s been over a year since she did that. I check my texts sometimes, just to see. Nothing. I guess that’s just how it goes sometimes. But I still worry. (Word count: 1182)
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