I raised my son alone after his father left when he was under a year old.
Since then I’ve worked two jobs. Our small family depended on me. My mother helped most of the time, and only occasionally did I hire a nanny because it was expensive.
I appreciated my mother’s help, though I’d noticed odd things sometimes. She would forget important details, say things out of context, or seem lost in her own world. I told myself it was fatigue or age.
Then one day my son asked me:
— “Can’t you work anymore, Mom?”
— “No, son,” I answered, stroking his hair. “We need the money for rent, food, and your toys. Why do you ask?”
He shrugged and said, “That’s interesting.”
At the time I didn’t think much of it. I assumed it was just childish curiosity. But a few days later everything changed.
One evening I returned from my shift. My son ran up, hugged me hard, and suddenly broke into tears.
— “Mom, please don’t leave me with Grandma anymore.”
I was stunned.
— “Why, sweetheart? Are you bored? Did Grandma punish you?”
— “She… she’s acting strange. I’m scared.”
— “What did she do?”
He looked away, voice trembling.
— “It hurt… Please don’t let her come again.”
A cold dread spread through me. The boy couldn’t explain properly — he was shaking and silent, as if terrified to speak. I called my mother; she brushed it off, saying they’d been playing and my son had made it up.
But I could see he wasn’t lying. His eyes were full of real fear.
The next day I took time off work. I told my mom I had to go to the office, then hid in the bedroom closet, heart pounding so loud I thought they’d hear me.
She came in, smoothed his blanket, picked up a toy — everything seemed normal at first. Then she grabbed his hand, twisted it, and took a rope from her suitcase to bind his wrists.
My son screamed for me. Mom stepped forward and slammed her palm over his mouth. The worst came next: she tilted her head toward the ceiling and said out loud,
— “See? I did what you told me.”
She listened to something invisible, then laughed, a hollow, pained sound.
— “No, he will not leave… He’s ours.”
I couldn’t hold back any longer and leapt from the closet.
— “Mom! What are you doing!”
She turned. Her eyes were wild, almost luminous.
— “The voices told me,” she said softly.
— “What voices?” I demanded.
— “They’re with me. They’re always with me…” She smiled, then abruptly burst into tears and laughter.
My son was sobbing; I rushed to untie him and held him close. My mother stood, muttering to the empty air.
I took her to the doctor. After tests and evaluations, the diagnosis came: schizophrenia.
I felt terrified and heartbroken. This was the woman who had raised and protected me — and now she might harm my child.
