The little black camera remained above the front window.
Not because I lived in fear.
Because protecting my home had become an ordinary part of protecting my peace.
I walked upstairs and found Owen sitting at his desk, working on a school project.
“Hey, Mom,” he said without looking up. “Do you know where the blue markers are?”
“Kitchen drawer.”
“Thanks.”
I watched him for a moment.
This was what I had fought for.
Not a mansion.
Not revenge.
Not the satisfaction of watching powerful people lose their influence.
I had fought for a home where my son could close his bedroom door without fearing what was happening downstairs. A home where nobody had to earn the right to feel safe. A home where love wasn’t measured by how much a person was willing to sacrifice.
My father had once stood in my living room and told me I had until Friday to surrender everything I had built.
