A Call from Grandma Turned My Son’s Summer Visit into an Unforgettable Story

My 16-Year-Old Son Went to Stay with His Grandmother for the Summer – One Day, I Got a Call from Her
I believed my 16-year-old son had finally turned the corner when he offered to look after his crippled grandmother for the summer. However, that expectation was dashed one night when my mother called me in a terrible manner.

“Please, come save me from him!” my mother’s voice screamed, breathless, over the telephone.

I had never heard her speak in such a shrill, fearful tone. I felt a knot in my stomach. The line died before I could reply.

I looked at my phone in horror and disbelief. My mother, who was fiercely independent and strong, was afraid. And I was fully aware of who “him” was.

Although my son had always been a pain in the ass, he had recently gone too far. He was pushing all the limits he could find at sixteen. A walking storm of attitude and defiance, rebellious and stubborn.

I recalled a specific grin that I couldn’t identify as he slung his backpack down upon returning home from school. “I was thinking about going to Grandma’s this summer,” he’d stated. You keep insisting that she needs more company, don’t you? I could watch over her.”

I was surprised and a little proud at first. Perhaps he was changing for the better and taking responsibility for his actions. But now that I was driving along the dark highway, his words were bothering me more than they had in the past.

I blinked, startled. Are you interested in staying with Grandma? Most of the time, you’re eager to leave.

His words, “I’ll help take care of her,” “Mom, you could even release the caretaker. You know, save some cash.”

As I drove, more and more of our recent chats began to fit together in my head, creating an unpleasant mental image.

“People change,” he had shrugged, grinning oddly. Then he gave me a half-smile as he looked up. “I mean, I’m almost a man now, right?”

I dismissed it at the time, figuring he might be maturing at last. But that smile felt a little strange now. He seemed to be acting, but not in a kind or sincere way.

Other details that I had previously disregarded came back to me as I was driving. I wanted to personally check on my mother, so I called a week into his stay. He would respond with a smile, but too quickly, as if directing the call. “Hi, Mom! Grandma is sleeping. I’ll let her know you called even though she stated she was too exhausted to speak tonight.

Why didn’t I exert more effort?

My thoughts immediately returned to the beginning. Since his father departed when he was two years old, it had been just the two of us. In an attempt to keep him grounded, I had given him what he needed. However, as he reached adolescence, the tiny fissures had begun to enlarge.

My mother was the only one who occasionally appeared to reach him. She was able to disarm him, even though she acknowledged that he was “testing her patience.”

I called my mom once more, hoping she would answer. Anxiously, I tapped the screen with my thumb, but nothing happened.

Her rural neighborhood was just ahead, and the sky grew darker as the houses got more sparse. My thoughts kept repeating his too-slick justifications and his endearing behavior with each step.

A shiver went through me as I pulled up to my mother’s house. Two blocks away I could hear music blaring. Her once-tidy grass had become overgrown, with weeds tangled around the porch steps. It appeared as if no one had been home for weeks because the lights were off and the shutters’ paint was peeling.

Disbelief twisted into a horrible rage as I got out of the car. The porch was strewn with smashed soda cans and beer bottles. Through the open window, I could even smell the scent of cigarette smoke.

I grabbed for the door and pushed it open with trembling hands.

And anarchy was there, directly in front of me.

Over the music, strangers shouted, drank, and laughed in the living room. While several appeared barely out of high school, half of them appeared old enough to be college students. Anger and despair flooded through me as my heart twisted.

“Where is he?” I muttered as I looked around the throng, my incredulity turning to a determined anger. I called his name while shouldering through people. “Pardon me! “Move!”

A girl lying on the couch looked up at me and blinked languidly. “Hey, lady, relax. She waved a bottle at me and muttered, “We’re just having fun.”

“Where’s my mother?” Hardly able to control the harshness of my voice, I snapped.

The girl simply shrugged, without caring. “I don’t know. No elderly woman has been spotted here.

I shouted my son’s name over the loud music, ignoring her as I walked across the crowded room. My heart was racing with each stride as I glanced from face to face. The house felt more and more like a stranger’s, a place my mother would never permit, much less a place to dwell, with each passing second.

“Mom!” When I got to the end of the corridor, close to her bedroom door, I called in a desperate tone. The handle was slightly scratched, and it was closed, as if it had been opened and closed a hundred times in the past hour alone.

With a pounding heart, I knocked. “Mom? Are you inside? It’s me.

A voice, barely discernible above the din, answered, weak and shaking. “I’m present. Just get me out, please.

I struggled with the handle and flung the door open, feeling a mixture of relief and dread. She was seated on the bed, her eyes ringed with fatigue, her face drawn and pale. I could see black circles under her eyes, and her hair was tangled.

“Oh, Mom…” In a heartbeat, I walked across the room, knelt down next to her, and put my arms around her.

Her weak but solid hand gripped mine. She whispered, “He started with just a few friends,” her voice just audible above a whisper. However, he became irate when I urged him to stop. “I was just getting in the way,” he added. Her tone faltered. “He began confining me here. claimed that I was ruining his enjoyment.

A feeling of nauseating rage swept over me. I had been so naive as to trust my son’s pledge to “help out.” I stroked her hand while taking a trembling breath. “Mom, I’ll take care of this. I promise.

She nodded and took hold of my hand, her own fingers shaking and chilly. “You have to.”

My jaw was clenched so tightly it hurt as I made my way back to the living room. And there was my son, laughing with some older children while lounging on the wall.

His face became white when he looked up and saw me.

“Mom? What? Why are you here?

“What am I doing here?” My voice was firm and calm, but I didn’t feel it as I echoed. “Why are you in this place? Take a look around! Observe the damage you have caused to your grandmother’s house.

In an attempt to appear calm, he shrugged, but I could see his mask coming off. “It’s only a celebration. You don’t need to panic.

“Everyone should leave this place. “Now.” This time, my steely voice broke through the cacophony. It felt like the entire room froze. “I’m calling the police if this house isn’t empty in the next two minutes.”

The partiers stumbled toward the door, mumbling as they left one by one. Only shattered furniture, empty bottles, and my son, who was now by himself in the mess he had created, remained after the house was cleared out.

I turned to him when the last visitor had left. “I had faith in you. Your grandmother had faith in you. And you pay her back like this? “This is how you defined ‘helping’?”

His features twisted into a defensive grimace as he shrugged. “The room wasn’t necessary for her. Mom, you’re constantly on my case. All I wanted was some freedom.

“Freedom?” My voice trembled with incredulity. “You’re going to learn what responsibility is.” I inhaled deeply, each word weighing heavily on me. “I’m selling all of your costly electronics to cover the cost of the damage since you’re going to a summer camp with rigorous restrictions. No ‘freedom’ is granted to you unless you earn it.

“What?” With a flash of terror in his eyes, his bluster faded. “You can’t be serious.”

I responded, “Oh, I am,” in a tone that was colder than I had ever heard. And when you turn eighteen, you’re out of the house if you don’t change. I’m over making excuses.

I sent him out to camp the following day. As the summer went on, his objections and his rage subsided, and he was finally had to deal with the fallout.

That summer, I felt the parts of our family coming together as I fixed up my mother’s house. Room by room, I repaired the walls, cleaned up the shattered glass, and clung to the hope that my son would return home a different person.

I saw a shift in my son after that summer. He became more reserved and steady, studying in the evenings rather than going out with friends.

Little things like lending a hand around the house and offering an unprompted apology become commonplace. He appeared to be growing more conscious and polite every day, as if he were finally turning into the man I had imagined.

Two years later, I saw him bow his head as he walked up my mother’s steps once more. He was going to be accepted into a prestigious institution and graduate with honors. He held a bouquet in his hand, and I had never seen his eyes so tender and real.