That was the first time he blocked her voice. And it wouldn’t be the last.

I should’ve pushed harder. I should’ve insisted on hearing her voice, but I didn’t. I let it go — caught between trusting my son and the relief of thinking maybe, just maybe, he was finally becoming the man I always hoped he’d be.

But now, as I turned into my mother’s street, heart pounding like a war drum, I realized I’d made a terrible mistake.

Her porch light was off. Her windows were dark. My gut twisted.

I didn’t even knock. I used the spare key and rushed inside, calling out her name.

“Mom? Mom!”

Silence.

Then, a faint sound — not quite a voice, more like a whimper — from the back bedroom.

I bolted down the hallway and threw open the door. My mother sat in her wheelchair, her face pale, her eyes wide and wet with relief when she saw me. “Thank God,” she whispered.

Then I heard a voice behind me.

“Wow, you didn’t even call first?”

I turned slowly.

My son stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes flat. That same strange smile stretched across his face — only now, it looked darker. Meaner.

“I was just taking care of her,” he said. “Like you wanted.”

And suddenly I knew… this wasn’t just teenage rebellion anymore. Something deeper was wrong.