I came home from work, and my son hugged me, started crying, and said he didn’t want to stay with grandma anymore: I was shocked when I found out the reason

I raised my son alone. My husband left when the child wasn’t even a year old.

Since then, I’ve worked at two jobs. Our small family relied entirely on my shoulders. Most of the time, my mother helped. Sometimes I had to call a nanny, but it was expensive.

I was grateful to my mother for her help, although sometimes I noticed strange behavior. She could forget something important, say things out of place, as if she were in the clouds. But I attributed it all to fatigue or age.

And one day my son said to me:

— Mom, can you stop working?

— No, sweetheart, — I smiled and patted his head. — We need money: for housing, food, your toys. Why do you ask?

— Just… — he shrugged — curious.

At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I thought it was just childlike curiosity. But a few days later, something happened that turned everything upside down.

In the evening, I came home after my shift. My son ran to me, hugged me tightly, and suddenly started crying.

— Mom, please, don’t leave me with grandma anymore.

I was stunned.

— Why, honey? Do you miss her? Or did grandma punish you?

— She… she acts weird. I’m scared.

— What did she do?

My son looked away, his voice trembling:

— It hurt… Please, don’t let her come anymore.

I felt a chill inside. But the child couldn’t explain properly — he trembled and went silent, as if he was afraid even to speak. I called my mother. She assured me everything was fine, that they had played, and that my son had just made it up.

But I could see: my son wasn’t lying. His eyes were full of real terror.

The next day I took a day off. I told my mother I was going to work, and I hid in the bedroom closet. My heart was beating so hard it seemed like it could be heard.

I saw my mother go to my son. At first, everything looked innocent — she straightened the blanket, put a toy back in place. But then… 

Suddenly, she grabbed the child by the arm, twisted it, and then took a rope from her bag and tied his wrists.

My son cried, calling for me. My mother came over and roughly covered his mouth with her hand. But the worst was yet to come. She lifted her head to the ceiling and spoke:

— See? I did as you ordered…

She listened to someone invisible, then began to laugh — a muffled, strained laugh.

— No, no, he won’t leave… He’s ours…

I couldn’t take it and jumped out of the closet:

— Mom! What are you doing?!

She turned around. Her eyes were wild, full of shine.

— The voices told me to, — she said calmly.

— What voices?!

— They are with me. They are always with me… — she smiled, then suddenly started crying and laughed again.

My son was sobbing. I rushed to him, untied his hands, and held him close. My mother stood motionless, whispering something into the void.

I took my mother to a doctor. There, after examinations, I heard the diagnosis — schizophrenia.

I was scared and heartbroken. This was my mother, the woman who once protected me, raised me, loved me. And now… she could harm my son.