This happened three years ago, when my grandmother in Kathmandu was in hospital for a heart operation. At the same time, my younger brother, who was studying in Australia, had just failed one of his university modules and was very worried about being sent home.
My grandmother adored my brother and asked about him constantly. One afternoon, as I was sitting by her bed, she asked how his studies were going and whether he was doing well. I didn't tell her the whole truth. I said he was working hard and that his teachers were happy with him, which was partly true, because he was working very hard to resit the exam. I didn't mention that he'd failed.
I made that decision because the doctors had told us to avoid giving her any stressful news before the operation. She was already anxious, and I knew that if she found out, she'd spend her nights worrying about him rather than resting. My parents agreed with me.
Afterwards, I had mixed feelings. On the one hand, I'm fairly sure it was the right decision, because the operation went well and she recovered quickly. On the other hand, I felt uncomfortable, because I'm usually a very direct person, and she has always been honest with me. A few months later, after my brother passed the resit, he told her everything himself. She laughed and said she'd guessed something was wrong from my face. That made me realise that half-truths are often not as convincing as we think, and that the people who love us usually know.