When my son Ethan asked to spend the summer with his grandmother, I was taken aback. My usually independent, and at times rebellious, 16-year-old son had never shown any interest in visiting my mother, especially not for an entire summer. I had always thought that his reluctance to visit her was because of her small town and her health struggles, but his request was different. He seemed genuinely excited to help her, to be there for her, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride that he was finally taking responsibility for something beyond his own world.

At first, everything went as smoothly as I could have hoped. Ethan called me regularly, keeping me updated on how everything was going. He was cheerful and polite, and I even heard my mother’s voice in the background, telling me how much of a help he had been around the house. I had no reason to suspect anything was amiss. But as the days went by, I began to notice subtle changes. Each time I asked to speak to my mother directly, Ethan would brush it off, telling me she was either too tired, or that she was busy with something else.

My mother, who had always been independent despite her disabilities, had never been one to shy away from a phone call. Something felt off, but I brushed it aside, hoping it was just my overactive imagination.

Then, one evening, everything changed.

I was sitting in my living room, scrolling through emails, when my phone rang. The caller ID showed my son’s number. I was about to pick up when I heard a faint whisper through the line, “Please, save me from him.” The call abruptly cut off, and I stared at the phone in my hand, my heart racing. It was my mother’s voice, but it wasn’t a voice of calm. It was fearful, pleading, and full of desperation.

I tried to call back, but there was no answer. I immediately called Ethan’s phone, but it went straight to voicemail. Panic set in, and a deep, gut-wrenching fear twisted in my stomach. I had to get to them, to make sure everything was okay. My mind raced with thoughts of what could be happening. Ethan had always been headstrong, testing limits and pushing boundaries. But was he capable of something like this? And why would my mother say that?

I grabbed my keys and rushed out the door, my heart pounding with every mile as I drove to her house, a small place on the outskirts of town. The air seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

As I approached my mother’s house, the first thing I noticed was how dark it was. The porch light was off, and the lawn, usually well-kept, had grown wild with weeds. A cold shiver ran down my spine as I parked the car and stepped out, the silence almost deafening. There were no sounds of life inside the house, no cars in the driveway, nothing.

I knocked on the door, but it didn’t open. I tried the handle—locked. Panic bubbled up, and my breath quickened. I had never seen my mother’s house in such disarray. What had happened while I was away?

I finally managed to get the door open, and what I saw inside made my heart sink. The house was a mess. Empty beer cans, fast food wrappers, and crushed soda bottles littered the floor. Music blared from somewhere inside, and when I stepped into the living room, I was greeted by the sight of a group of strangers—young adults, clearly not from this town—sitting around, laughing and drinking. They didn’t seem to care about my presence, too caught up in their own world. I felt like an outsider in my own mother’s home.

“Where’s my mother?” I demanded, my voice sharp as I pushed past them, looking for any sign of her.

One of the girls, barely older than my son, looked up from the couch and slurred, “Who’s your mom? Haven’t seen any old lady here.”

My anger flared, but I held it in check, pushing forward. This wasn’t the time to lose control. I had to find my mother.

I scanned the room, feeling like I was losing precious seconds. The house was a chaotic blur—kids too young to be drinking, music too loud to hear anything else. I barely took a breath as I made my way down the hallway toward my mother’s bedroom. The door was closed, and I could hear murmurs coming from inside. I knocked, my heart in my throat.

“Mom? Are you in there?” I called, my voice shaking.

A weak voice from inside replied, barely audible, “I’m here. Please—just get me out.”

Relief washed over me, but it was mixed with horror. I hurriedly opened the door, and there she was, sitting on the bed, pale and disheveled. Her hair was unkempt, and her eyes were red from exhaustion. The moment she saw me, she broke down, her tears flowing freely.

“Oh, Mom…” I whispered, rushing to her side and enveloping her in my arms.

She clung to me, shaking. “He... he’s not who I thought he was. He’s changed. He’s dangerous.”

My heart sank as I realized that it wasn’t just the house that had changed—it was Ethan. The boy I thought I knew, the son I had raised, had become someone I didn’t recognize.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice trembling.

“He’s been throwing parties... bringing people here... getting drunk. He’s not taking care of me. I can’t handle it anymore.” My mother’s voice broke, and she looked up at me, fear in her eyes. “He’s not the boy you raised. Something’s gone wrong.”

I felt my world spinning, but I had to keep my focus. My mother was safe, but what about Ethan? I had to confront him, find out what had happened. But more than that, I had to get him the help he so clearly needed.

“I’m going to handle this, Mom,” I said firmly. “I’m taking you home, and we’ll figure this out together.”

As I helped my mother to her feet, I realized that this summer had not only changed her life but mine as well. The boy I had once known had become a stranger, and it was my responsibility to bring him back—before it was too late.