I came home from work, and my son ran into my arms, crying, saying he never wanted to stay with grandma again 😲😲
I had raised my son alone. His father left when the child was not even a year old.
Since then, I worked two jobs. Our little family relied entirely on my shoulders. Most of the time, my mom helped me out. Occasionally, I had to hire a nanny, but that was expensive.
I was grateful for my mom’s help, although sometimes I noticed odd behavior. She could forget important things, say things at the wrong time, as if she were lost in the clouds. But I attributed it to fatigue or age.
One day, my son said to me:
— Mom, can you stop working?
I smiled and stroked his head.
— No, sweetie. We need money—for our home, food, your toys. Why do you ask?
— Just… curious, — he shrugged.
At the time, I didn’t think much of it, assuming it was just childlike curiosity. But a few days later, something happened that turned everything upside down.
One evening, I came home after my shift. My son ran to me, hugged me tightly, and suddenly burst into tears.
— Mom, please don’t leave me with grandma anymore.
I was stunned.
— Why, honey? Do you miss me? Did grandma punish you?
— She… she acts strange. I’m scared.
— What did she do?
My son looked away, his voice trembling:
— It hurt me… Please, let her not come anymore.
A chill ran through me. But he couldn’t explain properly—he trembled and went silent, as if afraid to speak. I called my mom. She insisted everything was fine, that they had been playing, and that my son had made it up.
But I could see he wasn’t lying. His eyes were full of genuine terror.
The next day, I took a day off work. I told my mom I was going out, but I hid in the bedroom closet. My heart was pounding so loudly it felt like it could be heard.
I saw my mom enter my son’s room. At first, it seemed harmless—she straightened his blanket, put a toy back in place. But then…
Suddenly, she grabbed my child’s hand, twisted it, and pulled a rope from her bag to tie his wrists.
My son cried, calling for me. My mom roughly covered his mouth with her hand. But the most terrifying part came next. She raised her head to the ceiling and spoke:
— See? I did as you commanded…
She seemed to be listening to someone invisible, then began to laugh—deeply, hysterically.
— No, no, he will not leave… He is ours…
I couldn’t stand it and jumped out of the closet:
— Mom! What are you doing?!
She turned. Her eyes were wild, shining.
— The voices told me, — she said calmly.
— What voices?!
— They are with me. They are always with me… — she smirked, then suddenly cried, then laughed again.
My son was sobbing. I rushed to him, untied his hands, and held him close. My mom stood still, whispering to the empty air.
I took my mom to a doctor. After tests, I heard the diagnosis—schizophrenia.
I was terrified and heartbroken. This was my mother, the woman who had once protected me, raised me, loved me. And now… she could have hurt my son.
