When my 16-year-old son offered to spend the summer caring for his disabled grandmother, I thought he had finally turned the tide. But one night, a terrifying phone call from my mother shattered that hope.
‘Please come and save me from him!’ – whispered my mum’s voice in the receiver, barely catching her breath.
Her words were full of fear, a tone I’d never heard from her before. My stomach cramped. Before I could answer, the line cut off.
I stared at the phone, disbelief mixed with shock. My strong, fiercely independent mother was scared. And I knew exactly who it was.
My son had always been fidgety, but lately he’d been pushing himself to new limits. In his sixteenth year, he was testing every boundary he could find. Rebellious, stubborn, a walking storm of defiance and disobedience.
I remembered him coming home from school, laden with his rucksack, with a sort of unrecognisable grin. ‘I was thinking about going to Grandma’s this summer,’ he said. ‘You always say she could use some company. I could keep an eye on her.’
My first reaction was surprise and a little pride. Maybe he was taking it to the next level, becoming responsible. But now, as I raced down the darkening motorway, his words hurt me in a way they hadn’t before.
I blinked in surprise. ‘You… want to go visit your grandmother? You usually can’t wait to get out of there.’
‘I’ll help look after her,’ he said. ‘You can even let the carer go, Mum. Save some money, you know?’
The more I drove, the more fragments of our recent conversations popped into my head, forming a picture I didn’t like.
‘People change,’ he shrugged with an odd smile. Then he looked up at me with a half smile. ‘I’m almost a man now, right?’
I brushed it off then, thinking that maybe he’d finally grown up. But now that smile seemed…not like that. Not warm or sincere, but like he was playing a part.
As I drove, I remembered other details I hadn’t considered at the time. After a week of his stay with us, I called, wanting to know directly how my mother was doing. He answered cheerfully but too quickly, as if he was controlling the call. ‘Hi, mum! Grandma’s asleep. She said she was too tired to talk today, but I’ll tell her you called.’
Why didn’t I push harder?
I remembered how it had started. It had been just the two of us since his father left when he was two. I’d tried to give him what he needed so he wouldn’t get lost. But as he entered adolescence, the little cracks began to widen.
The only person who seemed to be able to get through to him from time to time was my mum. She had a way of disarming him, although even she admitted that he was ‘testing her patience’.
I dialled Mum’s number again, hoping she’d pick up. My thumb tapped restlessly on the screen, but still nothing.
The sky darkened, the houses became rarer, and her rural neighbourhood showed up ahead. With each mile, I remembered his too-soft excuses, his charming game.
When I pulled up to Mum’s house, I got chills. There was music coming from two blocks away. The lawn, once so neat, was now overgrown, weeds tangled in the porch steps. The paint was peeling on the shutters, the lights were off, as if no one had been home in weeks.
I got out of the car, feeling the disbelief turn to sick anger. Beer bottles and crushed soda cans lay on the porch. I could smell cigarette smoke through the open window.
My hands trembled as I reached for the door and pushed it open.
And there, right in front of me, chaos reigned.
Strangers filled the living room, laughing, drinking, shouting to the music. Half of them looked old enough to be students, others were barely older than high school. My heart raced, rage and heartache overwhelming me.
‘Where is he?’ I whispered, looking around the crowd, disbelief replaced by rage. I scrambled through the people, shouting his name. ‘Excuse me! Step back!’
A girl stretched out on the couch looked up at me, blinking lazily. ‘Hey, lady, calm down. We’re just having fun,’ she muttered, waving the bottle in my direction.
‘Where’s my mum?’ snapped I, barely containing the tremor in my voice.
The girl only shrugged, not paying attention. ‘I don’t know. Haven’t seen any old lady around here.’
Ignoring her, I continued walking through the crowded hall, shouting my son’s name over the loud music. I shifted my gaze from one face to the next, my heart pounding faster with each step. With each passing second, the house felt more and more like a stranger’s house, a place my mother would never let me in, let alone live in.
‘Mum!’ I called out with desperation in my voice, reaching the end of the corridor and approaching her bedroom door. It was closed, the knob slightly scratched, as if it had been opened and closed hundreds of times in the last hour alone.
I knocked hard, my heart pounding frantically. ‘Mum? Are you there? It’s me!’
A weak, trembling voice answered, barely audible over the noise. ‘I’m right here. Please, just get me out.’
I felt a wave of relief and terror as I fumbled for the handle and swung the door open. She was sitting on the bed, her face pale and drained and her eyes haggard. Her hair was dishevelled and dark circles could be seen under her eyes.
‘Oh, Mum…’ I crossed the room in a flash, fell to my knees beside her and wrapped my arms around her.
Her hand, fragile but firm, squeezed mine. ‘He started out with a few friends,’ she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘But when I asked him to stop, he got angry. He…he said I was just in his way.’ Her voice shook. ‘He started locking me in here. Said I was…getting in the way of his fun.’
A sickening wave of anger swept over me. I had been so blind, so stupid, to believe my son’s promise to ‘help’. I let out a shuddering breath, stroking her hand. ‘I’ll make it right, Mum. I swear.’
She nodded, squeezing my hand, her own fingers cold and trembling. ‘You have to.’
I walked back into the living room, clenching my jaw so hard it hurt. My son was standing there, leaning against the wall, laughing with a group of older kids.
When he looked up and saw me, his face went pale.
‘Mum, what… what are you doing here?’
‘What am I doing here?’ I repeated, my voice flat and calm, which I didn’t feel. ‘What are you doing here? Look round! Look what you did to your grandmother’s house!’
He shrugged, trying to portray calm, but I could see his mask slipping. ‘It’s just a party. You don’t need to go crazy.’
‘Get everyone out of here. Now.’ My voice was steely, and this time it broke through the noise. The whole room seemed to freeze. ‘I’m calling the police if this house doesn’t empty in the next two minutes.’
One by one, the party members walked out, muttering and stumbling, to the door. All that was left in the house was broken furniture, empty bottles, and my son, who now stood alone among the ruins he had created.
When the last guest left, I turned to him. ‘I trusted you. Your grandmother trusted you. And this is how you repay her? Is this what you think ‘help’ looks like?’
He shrugged, a protective grin appearing on his face. ‘She didn’t need the space. You’re always worried about me, Mum. I just wanted some freedom!’
‘Freedom?’ My voice shook with disbelief. ‘You’ll learn what responsibility is.’ I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of each word. ‘You’ll go to a summer camp with strict rules, and I’ll sell your electronics, anything valuable, to pay for the damage. You won’t get any ‘freedom’ until you earn it.’
‘What?’ His bravado wavered, fear flashed in his eyes. ‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Oh, I am serious,’ I said, my voice colder than I’d ever heard it. ‘And if you don’t change, you’re going to leave home when you turn eighteen. I’ve had enough excuses.’
The next day I sent him off to camp. His protests, his anger subsided as summer came, and for the first time he was forced to face the consequences.
As I repaired my mother’s house that summer, I could feel the shards of our family beginning to rebuild. Little by little, room by room, I cleaned up broken glass, patched walls, and hoped my son would come home a different person.
After that summer, I saw my son start to change. He became calmer, more balanced, spent his evenings studying instead of hanging out with friends.
Little things like helping around the house and apologising without being asked became commonplace. Every day he seemed more and more aware and respectful, as if he was finally becoming the person I had hoped he would be.
Two years later, I watched him walk up the steps to my mother’s house again, head bowed. He was going to graduate high school with honours and go to a good college. He had a bouquet in his hand, and his gaze was sincere and soft in a way I’d never seen it before.
‘I’m sorry, Grandma,’ he said, regret evident in his voice. I held my breath as I watched the boy I had fought to raise offer her a piece of my heart.
