Before I could even process it, a sound hit downstairs—sharp and unmistakable.
Marcus was back.
And he wasn’t alone.
Two sets of footsteps.
“You said they’d be out for hours,” a man muttered.
“They are,” Marcus replied. “We just need to make sure nothing looks suspicious before we go.”
Their steps pulsed closer, like the whole house was shrinking around us.
Then—
BANG BANG BANG.
Chaos exploded. Footsteps sprinting. Something crashing. Voices shouting orders.
An officer called out, “Ma’am? If you’re in the bathroom, it’s safe to come out.”
My hands shook as I opened the door. Noah clung to me while paramedics rushed in. An officer guided us into the hallway, and another detained Marcus near the living room.
His face twisted—not with guilt.
With pure, furious frustration.
“You should’ve stayed down,” Marcus hissed.
That was the last thing he said to me before the handcuffs clicked shut.
Marcus hadn’t meant to hurt us physically.
He meant to:
-
knock us out,
-
stage it like an “overwhelmed mother collapses,”
-
claim I was unfit to care for Noah,
-
steal every asset we owned,
-
and flee the country with his mistress to start a “new life.”
They uncovered:
-
hidden withdrawals,
-
forged documents,
-
a rented storage unit filled with our belongings,
-
fake travel identities,
-
and months of planning.
They caught him at a small airport two days later.
He was charged with theft, conspiracy, child endangerment, custodial interference, and fraud.
Now, Noah and I live somewhere safe.
Somewhere quiet.
And every once in a while, I still hear his words:
“You should’ve stayed down.”
But then I look at my son—alive, safe, breathing beside me—and I remember the one thing Marcus never expected:
I woke up.
I fought back.
I survived the night he tried to steal our lives.
And that changed everything.
