When my sixteen-year-old son said he wanted to spend the summer caring for his disabled grandmother, I almost cried. After years of attitude, rebellion, and slamming doors, this felt like a turning point. A moment of maturity. Maybe he was finally growing up,
I was wrong. It started with a call I’ll never forget.“Please… come save me from him,” my mother whispered, her voice trembling like a candle flickering in the wind.Then the line went dead.