I raised my son alone. My husband left when the child was not even a year old.
Since then, I worked in two places. Our small family depended entirely on my shoulders. Most often my mom helped me out. Sometimes I had to call a nanny, but it was expensive.
I was grateful to my mom for her help, although I sometimes noticed odd things. She could forget something important, say things out of place, as if she were floating in the clouds. But I blamed everything on fatigue or age.
And then one day my son said to me:
— Mom, can you stop working so much?
— No, sweetheart, — I smiled and stroked his head. — We need money: for housing, food, your toys. Why are you asking?
— Oh, nothing… — he shrugged, — just curious.
I didn’t pay attention then. 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 up to me, hugged me tightly, and suddenly burst into tears.
— Mom, please, don’t leave me with grandma anymore.
I froze.
— Why, honey? Do you miss me? Or did grandma punish you?
— She… she acts strange. I’m scared.
— What did she do?
My son looked away, his voice trembled:
— It hurt… Please, don’t let her come anymore.
A chill ran through me. But the child couldn’t really explain anything — he was trembling and fell silent, as if he were afraid to even speak. I called my mom. She insisted everything was fine, that they played, and that my son was just making it up.
But I saw it: my son wasn’t lying. His eyes were full of real fear.
The next day I took a day off. I told my mom I was going to work, but I hid in the closet in the bedroom. My heart was pounding so loudly I felt like she would hear me.
I saw my mom enter my son’s room. At first it looked harmless — she fixed the blanket, put a toy back in its place. But then… 
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Suddenly she grabbed the child’s hand, twisted it, and then took a rope out of her bag and tied his wrists.
My son cried and called for me. My mom came up and roughly covered his mouth with her hand. But the most terrifying part began after that. She lifted her head toward the ceiling and said:
— See? I did it the way you told me…
She listened to someone invisible, then began to laugh — low, hysterically.
— No, no, he won’t go anywhere… He’s ours…
I couldn’t hold it in anymore, I jumped out of the closet:
— Mom! What are you doing?!
She turned around. Her eyes were wild, full of manic shine.
— The voices told me to, — she said calmly.
— What voices?!
— They’re with me. They are always with me… — she smirked, then suddenly burst into tears and laughed again.
My son was sobbing, I rushed to him, untied his hands, hugged him tightly. My mom stood still, whispering something into the emptiness.
I took my mom to the doctor. There, after examinations, I heard the diagnosis — schizophrenia.
I felt scared and hurt. This was my mom, the woman who once protected me, raised me, loved me. And now… she could have harmed my son.
