Vri and the Great Gum Caper

Vri has a partner in crime — her great-grandpa. The two of them together? Trouble with a capital “T.” They share the same sparkle in their eyes, the same quick wit, the same instinct for telling a story at just the right moment.

The difference is this: Great-Grandpa is living with dementia, so when he tells a tall tale, it isn’t mischief. It’s his truth in that moment. His brain hands him a version of the world, and he offers it to us sincerely, confidently, sometimes brilliantly. Vri, on the other hand, knows exactly what she’s doing. And apparently, she’s been taking notes.

It started so simply.

“Tomorrow is National Gum Day,” she told her grandmother, as casually as someone commenting on the weather. “Can you buy some gum for my class?”

No grin. No giveaway. Just wide eyes and responsibility in her voice.

Great-Grandma — generous heart, soft spot for great-grandbabies — didn’t hesitate. In our family, we try to say yes when we can. We try to show up. So off she went to the store, and she came home triumphant: three big packs of gum, multiple flavors, because if you’re going to celebrate National Gum Day, you do it properly.

She could hardly wait to share the good deed.

“We’re all set for National Gum Day tomorrow at school!”

That’s when Vri’s mama paused.

“Hold on,” she said slowly. “Gum isn’t even allowed at school. Vri… come downstairs. Tell me about tomorrow.”

From the top of the stairs, you could feel the shift in the air. Silence. Then footsteps. Slow ones.

Vri appeared, trying very hard to look confused. Her eyes flicked toward Great-Grandma with a look that clearly said, Why did you tell her? It was the kind of glance only co-conspirators understand.

After a long pause and a little shuffling, the truth came out.

There is no National Gum Day.

There never was.

She made it up.

And I have to say — it was impressive. The confidence. The timing. The complete commitment to the storyline. It could have come straight from her great-grandpa’s playbook.

We tried not to laugh. We really did. Because yes, there are lessons about honesty. Yes, there are boundaries. Childhood needs guidance, not applause for deception. The gum was returned. Apologies were made. A gentle but firm conversation followed.

But somewhere in the middle of all that, I glanced over at Great-Grandpa.

He was grinning.

Not because he tracked every detail of what had happened. Not because he fully understood the logistics of gum policies at elementary schools. But because he recognized the sparkle. He recognized the energy of a good story unfolding.

Storytelling has always lived in him. Long before dementia. Long before memory became unpredictable. He has always been able to hold a room with a tale that grows just a little taller each time it’s told.

Now, when he tells a story that bends reality, there’s no agenda behind it. No wink. No strategy. It’s simply the way his brain is making sense of things. And we’ve learned something in that space as caregivers: sometimes the story matters more than the accuracy. Sometimes preserving dignity matters more than correcting details.

With Vri, though, it’s different. She’s not navigating cognitive change; she’s navigating childhood. And childhood is full of experiments — with imagination, with persuasion, with how far a confident voice can carry you. So yes, there were consequences. Because part of loving her well is teaching her where creativity ends and integrity begins.

Still, I couldn’t ignore what I was witnessing.

There was lineage in that kitchen. Legacy. The same humor, the same dramatic flair, the same sparkle traveling from great-grandpa to great-granddaughter. Dementia may blur timelines and scramble facts, but it does not erase essence. It does not erase personality. It does not erase the charisma that made us all fall in love with him in the first place.

Caregiving can be heavy. There are appointments and reminders and moments when you repeat the same answer three times in five minutes. There are days when you feel the quiet ache of what’s changing. But then there are days like this — when the crisis is gum, not health. When the lesson is mild and the laughter is real.

And I’m reminded that he is still here.

Still influencing this family. Still shaping it. Still passing down parts of himself — even now. Especially now.

Great-Grandma may be an easy sell if you bring enough charm. Vri may need to redirect her talents toward slightly less fraudulent holidays. And yes… someone was in trouble that afternoon.

But what stays with me isn’t the discipline or the returned gum.

It’s the sparkle.

The way love and personality keep moving forward through generations. The way dementia changes the landscape but doesn’t erase the heart of a person. The way a mischievous grin can still light up a room.

If you’re caring for someone whose memory is shifting, I hope you look for that spark. It’s still there. It might show up sideways. It might show up in unexpected places. It might even show up in a completely invented National Gum Day.

And when it does, even as you hold boundaries and teach lessons and return the gum to the store, you might find yourself smiling.

Because the story is still being told.

Just in a slightly different way.