Sure, here’s the expanded and revised version of your story, with character names changed and translated into English:

"Please, come save me from him!" my mother’s voice whispered through the phone, barely a breath.

Her words were sharp with fear, a tone I had never heard from her before. My stomach knotted. Before I could respond, the line went dead.

I stared at my phone, disbelief mixing with shock. My strong, fiercely independent mother was scared. And I knew exactly who "him" was.

My son had always been a challenge, but recently, he had crossed new lines. At sixteen, he was testing every boundary he could find. Rebellious, headstrong, a walking storm of attitude and defiance.

I remembered him coming home from school, tossing his backpack onto the floor with a grin I didn’t recognize. "I was thinking about going to Grandma’s this summer," he said. "You always say she could use some company, right? I could keep an eye on her."

My first reaction was surprise, maybe even a little pride. Maybe he was finally becoming responsible. But now, as I sped down the darkening highway, those words nagged at me in a way they hadn’t before.

I blinked in surprise. "You… want to stay with Grandma? You usually can’t wait to get out of there."

"I’ll help take care of her," he said. "You could even let the caregiver go, Mom. Save some money, you know?"

The more I drove, the more pieces of our recent conversations slipped into place, forming a picture I didn’t like.

"People change," he shrugged with a strange smile. Then, looking up at me with a half-smile, he added, "I mean, I’m almost a man now, right?"

I brushed it off then, thinking maybe he was finally maturing. But now, that smile felt… off. It wasn’t warm or genuine. It was like he was playing a part.

As I drove, I remembered other things, details I’d dismissed at the time. A week into his stay, I called, wanting to check on my mother. He answered, cheerful but a little too fast, as though he was steering the call. "Hey, Mom! Grandma’s asleep. She said she was too tired to talk tonight, but I’ll tell her you called."

Why hadn’t I pressed harder?

My mind raced back to how it all started. It had been just the two of us since his father left when he was two. I had done my best to give him everything he needed to stay grounded. But since he hit his teenage years, the small cracks had started widening.

The only person who could still get through to him now and then was my mother. She had a way of disarming him, though even she admitted that he was "testing her patience."

I dialed my mother’s number again, hoping she would pick up. My thumb tapped the screen anxiously, but still, nothing.

The sky darkened as the houses became more spread out, and my mother’s rural neighborhood loomed ahead. With every mile, my mind replayed his too-smooth excuses, his charming act.

As I pulled up to my mother’s house, a chill ran through me. I could hear music blasting from two blocks away. Her lawn, once so neat, was now overgrown, weeds tangling around the porch steps. The shutters had peeling paint, and the lights were off, as if no one had been home in weeks.

I stepped out of the car, feeling disbelief twist into sick anger. Beer bottles and crushed soda cans littered the porch. I could even smell cigarette smoke drifting out through the open window.

My hands shook as I reached for the door and pushed it open.

And there, right in front of me, was chaos.

Strangers filled the living room, laughing, drinking, shouting over the music. Half of them looked old enough to be college students, the others barely out of high school. My heart twisted, a mixture of fury and heartache flooding through me.

"Where is he?" I whispered, scanning the crowd, disbelief giving way to focused rage. I shouldered through people, calling his name. "Excuse me! Move!"

A girl sprawled on the couch glanced up at me, blinking lazily. "Hey, lady, chill out. We’re just having fun," she slurred, waving a bottle in my direction.

"Where’s my mother?" I snapped, barely able to hold back the edge in my voice.

The girl shrugged, unconcerned. "Dunno. Haven’t seen any old lady here."

Ignoring her, I pushed through the crowded room, shouting my son’s name over the blaring music. I looked from face to face, my heart pounding faster with every step. The house felt more like a stranger’s home, a place my mother would never have allowed, let alone lived in.

"Mom!" I called, my voice desperate as I reached the end of the hall, near her bedroom door. It was closed, the handle faintly scratched as though it had been opened and closed a hundred times in the last hour alone.

I knocked hard, my heart racing. "Mom? Are you in there? It’s me!"

A weak, trembling voice replied, barely audible over the noise. "I’m here. Please—just get me out."

I felt a wave of relief and horror as I fumbled with the handle and threw the door open. There she was, sitting on the bed, her face pale and drawn, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. Her hair was mussed, and I could see dark circles under her eyes.

"Oh, Mom…" I crossed the room in a heartbeat, falling to my knees beside her and wrapping my arms around her.

Her frail hand clutched mine. "He started with just a few friends," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "But when I told him to stop, he got angry. He… he said I was just getting in the way." Her voice wavered. "He started locking me in here. Said I was… ruining his fun."

A sickening wave of anger surged through me. I’d been blind, foolish enough to believe my son’s promise to "help out." I took a shaky breath, stroking her hand. "I’m going to fix this, Mom. I swear."

She nodded, gripping my hand, her fingers cold and trembling. "You have to."

I walked back to the living room, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt. And there was my son, leaning against the wall, laughing with a group of older kids.

When he looked up and saw me, his face went pale.

"Mom? What… what are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here?" I echoed, my voice steady with a calm I didn’t feel. "What are you doing here? Look around! Look at what you’ve done to your grandmother’s home!"

He shrugged, trying to play it cool, but I saw his mask slipping. "It’s just a party. You don’t have to freak out."

"Get everyone out of here. Now." My voice was steel, and this time, it cut through the noise. The whole room seemed to freeze. "I’m calling the police if this house isn’t empty in the next two minutes."

One by one, the partiers shuffled out, murmuring and stumbling toward the door. The house cleared out, leaving only broken furniture, empty bottles, and my son, who now stood alone in the wreckage he’d created.

When the last guest was gone, I turned to him. "I trusted you. Your grandmother trusted you. And this is how you repay her? This is what you thought 'helping' looked like?"

He shrugged, a defensive sneer twisting his face. "She didn’t need the space. You’re always on my case, Mom. I just wanted some freedom!"

"Freedom?" My voice shook with disbelief. "You’re going to learn what responsibility is." I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of each word. "You’re going to a summer camp with strict rules, and I’m selling your electronics, everything valuable, to pay for the damage. You don’t get a single 'freedom' until you earn it."

"What?" His bravado faltered, fear flickering in his eyes. "You can’t be serious."

"Oh, I am," I said, my voice colder than I’d ever heard it. "And if you don’t change, you’re out of the house when you turn eighteen. I’m done with excuses."

The next day, I sent him off to camp. His protests, his anger all faded as the summer passed, and for the first time, he was forced to face the consequences.

As I repaired my mother’s house that summer, I felt the pieces of our family begin to mend. Bit by bit, room by room, I cleared the broken glass, patched up the walls, and held onto hope that my son would come home a different person.

After that summer, I saw my son start to change. He grew quieter, steadier, spending evenings studying instead of disappearing with friends.

Small acts like helping around the house, and apologizing without being prompted became routine. Each day, he seemed more aware, and more respectful, like he was finally becoming the man I’d hoped for.

Two years later, I watched him walk up my mother’s steps again, head bowed. He was about to graduate school with honors and enroll in a nice college. In his hand was a bouquet, his gaze sincere and soft in a way I’d never seen.

"I’m sorry, Grandma," he said, his voice thick with regret. I held my breath, watching as the boy I’d fought to raise offered her a piece of his heart.

This story is based on real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.