Chapter 7
We moved Clara and the kids into the new apartment three days later.
It was on the third floor, with a deadbolt and a security chain and a peephole.
I had an alarm system installed the first day.
I gave Clara a can of pepper spray and showed her how to use it.
I slept on the couch every night for a week, a baseball bat next to me.
Daniel didn’t show up.
No calls. No texts. No sign of him at all.
I started to relax, just a little.
Clara started her new job at the boutique. She was good at it—friendly, hardworking, honest. My best friend said she was the best employee she’d ever had.
Lily and Milo started at their new school, a nice one in a safe neighborhood. They made friends. They stopped waking up screaming from nightmares.
Lily joined the art club. Milo started soccer.
I started my own small business—wedding planning, ironic as it was. I was good at it, because I knew exactly what could go wrong, and I made sure none of my brides ever had to feel what I felt.
Business was good.
For a month, things were almost normal.
We had dinner together every night. We watched movies on the weekends. We took the kids to the zoo, to the park, to get ice cream after school.
Lily started calling me “Aunt Lottie”. Milo would climb into my lap and fall asleep during movies.
I’d never been so happy.
I’d never felt so loved.
Then, one Tuesday afternoon, I got a call from the kids’ school.
A man had tried to pick them up, saying he was their uncle.
The secretary had recognized him from the photos we’d given the school, and called the cops.
He’d run before they got there.
It was Daniel.
I left work immediately and drove to the school. Clara was already there, holding the kids, crying.
Lily was pale, quiet. Milo was clinging to her, his face buried in her neck.
The principal told us Daniel had been hanging around the playground for three days, watching the kids at recess.
My blood ran cold.
He’d been planning this.
We filed a new police report. The judge issued a temporary restraining order—Daniel couldn’t come within 500 feet of the kids, the school, Clara, or me.
But I knew a piece of paper wouldn’t stop him.
That night, I sat Clara down at the kitchen table.
“We have to do something permanent,” I said. “He’s not going to stop until he hurts one of us.”
Clara nodded, her eyes red.
“I know,” she said. “But what? The cops can’t watch us 24/7.”
“We press full charges,” I said. “For breaking into the old apartment. For trying to take the kids. For the threats. We get his rights terminated. He never gets to hurt them again.”
Clara hesitated.
“Is that possible?” she asked. “He’s their dad.”
“He’s not a dad,” I said, firm. “A dad doesn’t scare his kids. A dad doesn’t break down doors. A dad doesn’t make his babies cry themselves to sleep. He gave up that right the second he chose himself over them.”
Clara looked over at the kids’ bedroom door, where they were sleeping.
“Okay,” she said, quiet. “Let’s do it.”
The next day, we hired a lawyer.
She was tough, no-nonsense, had won dozens of custody cases against abusive parents.
She told us we had a strong case.
All the evidence—the texts, the police reports, the school’s statement, the witnesses from the church—would prove Daniel was unfit.
The trial was set for three months later.
Daniel would fight it, she said. He’d lie, he’d scream, he’d try to make us look like the bad guys.
But we’d win.
I believed her.
For the first time since the wedding, I could see the light at the end of the tunnel.
We were going to be free.
May you like
We were going to be safe.
All we had to do was get through the trial.
