Exactly five days after an emergency C-section that Grant hadn’t even bothered to show up for, I took a taxi home from the hospital holding our newborn daughter Maisie against my chest, my stitches throbbing with every step the doctor had warned me not to take, and walked in to find a strange woman’s silver heels by the stairs, my cream silk robe on the marketing consultant he’d hired six months earlier, and Grant acting like I was the one who’d rudely interrupted something important.

The false DCF report was the last straw for Grant.

He’d lost his house. He’d lost his job. He’d lost his fancy car and his Rolex and his vacation home. He’d lost his girlfriend, who’d dumped him the second she found out he was broke and facing criminal charges. Now he was facing felony charges for filing a false police report, on top of the trespassing charges and the embezzlement cover-up.

He snapped.

It was a Friday night. I was at home, making pasta in the kitchen, Maisie asleep in her swing next to me. The security system was on, all the doors locked, the cameras rolling.

I heard the front door rattle.

Then the sound of glass breaking.

I froze.

I grabbed the knife I’d been using to cut garlic, tiptoed to the security monitor by the fridge, and looked.

It was Grant.

He was drunk. He’d broken the side window by the kitchen with a baseball bat. He was climbing through it, glass cutting his arms, screaming my name.

“LILA! GET OUT HERE! YOU RUINED MY LIFE! YOU OWE ME! GIVE ME MY DAUGHTER!”

I didn’t hesitate.

I grabbed my phone, dialed 911, and whispered my address.

“Someone just broke into my house. He’s armed with a baseball bat. He’s my ex-husband. He’s been threatening to take my baby. Please hurry.”

Then I grabbed Maisie out of her swing, ran up the stairs to my bedroom, locked the door, pushed the dresser in front of it, and climbed into the closet with Maisie in my arms.

I covered her mouth with my hand, gentle, so she wouldn’t make a sound. She was still asleep, thank God.

I heard Grant’s heavy boots on the hardwood floors downstairs.

I heard him smashing things—my plates, my glasses, the TV in the living room.

“LILA! I KNOW YOU’RE UP THERE! COME OUT OR I’LL COME UP AND GET YOU!”

I heard him start up the stairs.

Each step was a death sentence.

I held Maisie tighter, tears running down my face, praying the cops would get here before he did.

He was at the bedroom door.

He banged on it, hard, the wood shaking.

“OPEN THE DOOR, BITCH! YOU CAN’T HIDE FROM ME FOREVER! GIVE ME THE BABY AND I MIGHT NOT HURT YOU!”

He threw his shoulder against the door. Once. Twice.

The lock was holding, but just barely.

I heard sirens outside.

Loud, getting closer.

Grant stopped banging.

He hesitated.

Then he turned and ran back down the stairs.

I heard the front door slam.

A minute later, I heard the cops yelling, “POLICE! PUT YOUR HANDS UP! GET ON THE GROUND!”

Then silence.

I didn’t move.

I stayed in that closet, holding Maisie, for another ten minutes, until I heard Eli’s voice calling my name from the hallway.

“Lila! It’s me! The cops have him. He’s in handcuffs. You can come out now.”

I moved the dresser away from the door, my whole body shaking, and unlocked it.

Eli stood there, two cops behind him.

“He’s gone,” he said, holding out his arms. “He’s under arrest. Burglary, assault with a deadly weapon, violation of a restraining order, child endangerment. He’s not getting out of jail for a long time.”

I handed Maisie to him—she was still asleep, the little angel—and collapsed into his arms, sobbing.

The cops took my statement. They took photos of the broken window, the smashed dishes, the dents in my bedroom door. They gave me a new restraining order, this one permanent, saying Grant had to stay at least a thousand feet away from me, Maisie, my house, and my office at all times.

When they left, Eli and I cleaned up the mess.

It was after midnight when we finished.

Eli made us both hot chocolate and sat down across from me at the kitchen table.

“Vivian’s next,” he said, stirring his drink. “We have enough evidence to arrest her too, for conspiracy to commit custodial interference and filing a false DCF report. She’s been staying with her sister in Boca. The cops will pick her up tomorrow.”

I nodded, staring at the broken window covered in plywood.

“Is it ever going to end?” I asked. “All the fighting. All the drama. I just want to raise my baby in peace.”

Eli reached across the table and covered my hand with his.

“It will end, Lila. I promise. Grant is looking at ten to fifteen years in prison, minimum. Vivian is looking at three to five. Sienna is going to plead guilty to embezzlement next week, get five years probation, and have to pay back every cent she stole. By this time next year, all three of them will be out of your life forever. You’ll never have to see them, talk to them, or think about them again.”

He paused, smiling.

“And then? You get to live the life your dad wanted for you. You get to run Veridian. You get to watch Maisie grow up. You get to be happy.”