For the very first time, my son actually asked to spend the summer with my mother—completely on his own. This was shocking, considering he’d never really shown much interest in visiting her or staying in her quiet little town.
My mom is disabled, and I’ve been covering the cost of a daily caregiver. She refuses to move in with us or go to a senior home. To my surprise, my son offered to look after her himself so the caregiver could take a break. “Maybe he’s finally growing up?” I thought, cautiously optimistic.
The first week went by smoothly. He was polite on the phone and seemed cheerful. But every time I asked to talk to my mom, he’d claim she was sleeping or too busy to come to the phone.
Then came the terrifying call. My phone rang—it was his number, but when I answered, it was my mother’s voice, barely whispering, “Please, save me from him!” before the line cut off. I tried calling back. No answer.
Panic set in immediately. I jumped in the car and raced to her town. When I pulled up to her house, it looked worse than I remembered—dark, lifeless, and even more rundown. My chest tightened.
“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!” I shouted as I stormed inside.
“Mom! Mom, where are you?” I called. My voice echoed eerily through the dim hallway. A weak flicker of light came from the living room, as if a dying bulb were struggling to stay on. My heart pounded. I reached for the light switch by the door. Nothing.
“Zach?” I called, my voice shaking now. There was no response. My 16-year-old son was nowhere in sight. Over the years, I’d worried about his mood swings, his silence—but never like this. If my own mother was scared enough to call me in distress, something was horribly wrong.
Suddenly, I heard shuffling from the back. Mom’s room.
I rushed down the hallway and threw the door open. There she was—my mother, lying in bed, pale, worn down, and looking older than I remembered. Her hair was a mess, and her eyes were wide with fear.
“Mom, I’m here,” I said, kneeling at her side. “What’s going on? Why did you call me like that?”
She grabbed my arm tightly. “Thank God you came,” she whispered. “Zach is driving me crazy. He says he’s taking care of everything—but he’s gone way too far.”
I was relieved she was alive and talking, but I didn’t understand. “Too far? What do you mean?”
Before she could explain, Zach appeared in the doorway. His hair was wild, and he had deep bags under his eyes like he hadn’t slept in days. He looked disoriented, clutching a stack of papers in one hand and a half-eaten protein bar in the other. When he saw me, his eyes widened.
“Mom?” he said hesitantly. “What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” I stood up and placed myself protectively between him and my mother. “She called me. She begged me to save her from you. That’s what I’m doing here.”
Zach’s expression flickered with guilt, then settled into determination. He took a deep breath. “It’s not what it looks like. I’ve been working really hard—trying to fix things. I’m just not done yet.”
“Fix what, Zach?” I asked, looking around. The house was in disarray: dusty furniture, open magazines about home repair and elderly care, loose receipts scattered across the floor.
Mom sighed beside me. “He means well. But he stopped letting the caregiver in. He said he could do it all himself. He changed my diet, set alarms for when I sleep, made me follow some online therapy routines. I can’t even watch TV anymore because he says it’s too stimulating at night. It’s like he turned this house into a training camp.”
Zach’s face flushed. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I just thought I could help. The place was falling apart, and the caregiver costs you so much. I figured if I stepped up and did everything myself, I’d be helping both of you. But the more I learned, the more I realized how much needed to change.”
He held up the papers. “This is everything—her meds, exercise plans, daily schedule. I’ve been setting alarms every three hours to check on her because I read about bedsores in one of those articles. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to her.”
My mother raised her hand weakly. “I know he’s trying, but I haven’t been able to rest. He’s rearranged the whole house, started ripping up the carpets without knowing how to replace them. Dust is everywhere—I can’t breathe properly. He even messed with the breaker box to fix the lights, and now half the power’s gone. I’m exhausted. I feel like a stranger in my own home.”
I felt my anger melting into something else—an aching mix of pity and exhaustion. My son, who had always struggled to listen, was finally trying to do something right. But he was doing it all wrong.