My sister-in-law told my stalker ex my whereabouts. Now he won’t stop showing up. My ex Jake chased me with a machete three years ago during a psychotic break. After his schizophrenia diagnosis, I stayed to help despite our breakup until he threatened to turn me into pastor for his blood hounds when I started dating Sam. That’s when I cut contact completely.

 The only connection left was through Jess, my brother’s girlfriend. She’d been Jake’s friend for years and refused to pick sides. When I got pregnant in January, I told family to keep it quiet. 24 hours later, Jake left me a voicemail claiming he’d file for custody of his baby. We hadn’t spoken in over a year. Only Jess could have told him.

 I didn’t think it would matter, she said when confronted. He deserved to know. He threatened to kill me, Jess. That was during an episode. He’s better now. I made her promise. No more information about me or the baby. She agreed. Last weekend was my baby shower. 80 guests function room at a bar. Supposed to be perfect. Then I saw Jake at the bar scanning the crowd.

Security tried escorting him out. He bit one of them, screaming that he was the baby’s real father, that we’d never really broken up. Sam and friends tried calming him while I hid in the bathroom, sobbing. I confronted Jess immediately. How could I keep your baby shower secret from him? She actually said, “Because I told you to.

 Because he’s dangerous,” my brother called, begging me to forgive her. “Don’t punish me for what she did. The damage is done. Let it go.” I hung up. 2 days later, Jake showed up at my prenatal appointment. I don’t know how he knew. I had to leave through the back while security detained him.

 Yesterday, he was outside my workplace with flowers and a teddy bear, telling everyone he was surprising his girlfriend for our anniversary. Jess swears she hasn’t told him anything since the shower. But Jake knows things. My appointment times, where I work, when Sam’s not home. This morning, I found something that made my blood freeze. Jake had created a Facebook page. Fighting for my baby, a father’s right story.

 Hundreds of followers, photos of me from years ago, ultrasound images that looked real but weren’t mine, long posts about how I was denying him access to his child due to his mental health condition. The comments were horrifying. People calling me abbleist, saying I was discriminating against him, offering him legal advice, some even offering to help him rescue his baby. Then I saw a comment from a familiar account. Jess, stay strong, Jake. The truth always comes out.

 I screenshot everything and called my brother. Your girlfriend is publicly supporting my stalker. That’s not She wouldn’t. I sent him the screenshots. Silence. Then she says it’s not her account. Someone’s impersonating her. Check her phone. I can’t just check her phone. An hour later, he called back. His voice was strange. It’s her account.

But there’s more. What? She’s been messaging him for months, sending photos of you from family events, your ultrasound pictures, information about Sam’s work schedule. Oh my god. She’s been telling him that you still love him, that you’re being controlled by Sam, that once the baby’s born, you’ll come back to him. I dropped the phone.

Jess hadn’t just been careless. She’d been actively feeding Jake’s delusions. There’s something else, my brother said when I picked up. I found a draft message on her phone. She was planning to tell him something, but hadn’t sent it yet. What? Your home address and your due date and the hospital where you’re delivering. My due date is in 2 weeks.

 I’m packing her things now, my brother said. I’m so sorry. I had no idea. Where is she? I don’t know. She left an hour ago. Said she was meeting a friend. My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number. It was a photo of Jess and Jake at a cafe taken minutes ago. They were looking at something on Jake’s phone. Maps. They were looking at maps. Another text. Your sil is very helpful.

 See you soon, both of you. He meant the baby. Sam grabbed his keys. We’re leaving now. As we threw clothes into bags, my phone rang. Jess, I’m sorry. She was crying. I thought if he just saw you talk to you, he’d accept reality. I didn’t know he’d didn’t know what, Jess. I didn’t know he’d bring people. There’s a van of guys outside your house. They’re from that father’s rights group. They have cameras.

 They say they’re going to expose you for parental alienation. He’s with them. I looked out the window. A white van was pulling up to our house. Jake got out first, but he wasn’t alone. Five men followed him, one carrying a camera, others holding signs. They’re live streaming. Jess sobbed. The whole internet is watching. Jake told them you’re about to flee with his baby.

 The doorbell rang. Sam grabbed my arm and pulled me back from the window. The doorbell rang again, harder this time, and I could see Dean Madden through the glass panel, holding his phone up with the red recording light on. Behind him, Jake paced across our front lawn, talking fast to the camera, his hands moving in big gestures like he was explaining something important.

 Sam positioned himself in front of the door, and I fumbled with my phone to call 911. My hands shook so bad I almost dropped it. The dispatcher answered and asked what my emergency was. I tried to explain about the men outside, the cameras, Jake. But she kept asking if they’d threatened violence or tried to break in.

 When I said no, just trespassing and filming, her voice changed. She told me officers would come, but it wasn’t an emergency priority. Maybe 20 to 30 minutes. I wanted to scream that this was an emergency, that Jake had chased me with a machete, but she was already giving me an incident number and telling me to stay inside. Jess was still on the phone. I’d forgotten I hadn’t hung up on her.

 She was crying and saying something about the live stream chat. I put her on speaker. She said the comments were blowing up. Hundreds of people watching in real time. She read some of them out loud. People telling Jake to stand his ground. Don’t let her run with your baby. She’s trying to steal your kid. My stomach twisted.

 The baby kicked hard against my ribs like she could feel my panic. Sam was already calling someone. His sister, I realized. He told her we needed help. Could she come around back? She lived two blocks away. She said yes immediately. We started throwing things into bags, just grabbing whatever was close. Clothes, my prenatal vitamins, phone chargers. Jake’s voice carried through the walls.

 I could hear him talking about parental alienation, about his rights as a father. The men outside were cheering him on. Someone knocked on the window and I jumped so hard I nearly fell. Sam caught me and steered me toward the back of the house. We went out through the kitchen door into the backyard. The fence gate opened and Sam’s sister was there in her car, engine running.

 We threw our bags in and climbed into the back seat. She pulled away fast and I twisted around to look through the rear window. The white van was still parked in front of our house. Jake was still on the lawn, still talking to the camera. We drove to Sam’s sister’s apartment and my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

 The baby was doing flips inside me, moving constantly like she was as scared as I was. I felt horrible. My child’s first experience of the world was this chaos, this fear. Her first memories would be of her mother’s stress hormones flooding through the placenta. Sam’s sister made tea, but I couldn’t drink it. I just sat on her couch holding the warm mug, staring at nothing. My phone rang.

 Detective Miranda Waters. The 911 dispatcher had flagged our address from previous reports and called her. Miranda sounded mad, actually angry, which surprised me. She said the live streaming thing was a legal gray area. The father’s rights group knew exactly how to stay just inside the law.

 They weren’t threatening us directly, weren’t trying to break in, just standing on our property with cameras. Trespassing, but not criminal trespassing. Miranda said she was going to our house now to document everything and issue warnings. But unless they made clear threats or tried to enter the property, her hands were tied. She couldn’t arrest them just for being there. The frustration in her voice made me feel slightly better.

 Knowing she understood how wrong this was, even if she couldn’t fix it, she told me to stay where I was and she’d call back. I waited. Sam paced. His sister tried to make small talk, but gave up. Two hours crawled by. My phone rang again. Miranda. The group had left when police arrived, but they were still live streaming from a public sidewalk two houses down from ours. Completely legal.

Jake had given a long speech about discrimination against fathers with mental illness. Then his caseworker, Sylvester, had shown up and convinced him to leave. I asked if they were gone for good, and Miranda said, “Probably not, just for now.” My phone rang again before I could even process that. A number I didn’t recognize. I almost didn’t answer, but something made me pick up.

 It was Sylvester, Jake’s case worker. He apologized for not preventing this. His voice was tired. He explained that Jake had stopped taking his medication 3 weeks ago. He’d been getting worse, more delusional, but without a clear immediate threat. Involuntary commitment was nearly impossible to arrange.

 The system wasn’t set up to prevent things, only to react after something bad happened. I asked the question I was terrified to hear the answer to. Did Jake actually believe he was the father? There was a long pause. Then Sylvester said yes. Completely believed it. Jake had constructed an entire false story in his head where we’d never broken up, where Sam was the intruder trying to steal his girlfriend and baby.

 The delusion was fixed and unshakable. No amount of evidence or logic would change his mind because in his reality, his version was true. I hung up and looked at Sam. We couldn’t go home. Our address was public now from the live stream. Hundreds of people had seen our house number and street name. His sister said we could stay with her, but her apartment was tiny and I was due in 12 days.

 My brother’s call came the next morning while I was still trying to figure out how to sleep on his sister’s lumpy couch. His voice sounded wrong, hollow and scratchy like he’d been crying all night. He asked if we could meet in person because there was more stuff on Jess’s phone he needed to show me. I didn’t want to see anything else.

I wanted to pretend the messages from yesterday were the worst of it, that maybe there was some explanation that would make this hurt less. But I agreed to meet him at a coffee shop halfway between our locations. Sam drove me there and waited in the car while I went inside.

 My brother was already sitting at a corner table with his phone face down in front of him. His eyes were red and puffy. He kept apologizing before I even sat down, saying he was sorry for not seeing what Jess was doing, sorry for defending her, sorry for everything. I told him to stop because none of this was his fault, but he just shook his head and slid the phone across the table.

 The messages between Jess and Jake went back months all the way to January when I first told the family I was pregnant. She’d send him photos from every single family gathering, birthday dinners, holiday parties, random weekend barbecues. In each one, she’d add little comments about how I looked glowing and beautiful, how the baby was bringing out the best in me.

 She’d zoom in on my stomach in the pictures and send those, too. Jake’s responses were getting more and more excited as the pregnancy progressed, talking about our future together, and what kind of dad he’d be. I scrolled through message after message, my hands shaking so bad, I almost dropped the phone. The messages got worse the further I went.

 just told Jake that Sam seemed controlling, that I didn’t seem as happy as I used to be with him. She was actively feeding his delusion, creating this whole fake story where I was some victim who needed rescuing from my own life. She told him I still wore the necklace he gave me years ago, even though I threw that thing away the day he threatened me with the machete. She told him I asked about him at family dinners, even though I literally never said his name.

 She was making up an entire relationship that didn’t exist, rewriting reality to fit whatever narrative she decided was true. My brother watched me read with this miserable expression on his face. He looked like he wanted to throw up. I asked him how long this had been going on, and he said every single day since January, multiple messages per day, sometimes.

 Jess had been more in contact with Jake than she was with some of our actual family members. Then my brother pulled up one final message that made me stop breathing. Two weeks ago, right around when my baby shower invitations went out, Jess had sent Jake a long paragraph. It said I was scared, but I still loved him. That she could tell by the way I acted.

 It said once the baby came and I saw how much he’d changed, everything would go back to how it should be. She actually wrote that. She told a man who chased me with a weapon that everything would go back to how it should be. I pushed the phone back across the table because I couldn’t look at it anymore.

 My brother grabbed my hand and asked if I thought Jess was trying to get me hurt. I wanted to say yes. I wanted to believe she was some evil person who deliberately put me in danger because that would be easier than the truth. But I shook my head and told him I thought she genuinely believed she was helping. Her savior complex and her loyalty to Jake had completely blinded her to the actual danger she was creating.

 She thought she was fixing things, bringing people together, healing old wounds. She had no idea she was building a bomb. My phone rang while we were sitting there. Detective Miranda. I almost didn’t answer because I wasn’t sure I could handle any more bad news, but I picked up anyway. Her voice was tight and angry when she told me Jake’s Facebook page had gained 3,000 followers since the live stream this morning.

 Someone had created a GoFundMe for his legal defense fund, and it had already raised $8,000. People were donating money to help him fight me. Miranda said the online attention was the worst possible thing that could happen right now because it reinforced Jake’s delusions and gave him actual resources and support.

 The father’s rights community had grabbed onto his story as this big example of discrimination against mentally ill dads. They were treating him like some kind of hero standing up against an unfair system. She said they were organizing, planning more actions, talking about showing up at my workplace and the hospital where I was registered to deliver.

 I hung up and stared at the coffee cup in front of me that I hadn’t touched. My brother asked what Miranda said and I told him. He put his head in his hands. We sat there in silence for a few minutes before I realized I needed to call my boss. I stepped outside and dialed her number, trying to figure out how to explain why I couldn’t come to work without sounding completely insane. She picked up on the second ring and I just started talking.

 Words tumbling out about Jake and the stalking and the live stream and the Facebook page. She listened to everything without interrupting. When I finished, she was quiet for a moment before saying she understood and I should take whatever time I needed. But then her voice changed and she said she was worried about workplace safety for the other employees.

 Colt, the security guard at our building, had already escorted Jake away twice this week. Other people were getting scared. She wasn’t saying I couldn’t come back, but I could hear the concern in her voice that my problems were becoming everyone’s problems. I got back in the car with Sam and told him everything. He drove us back to his sister’s apartment, and she was already on her laptop when we walked in.

 She’d been researching safe houses and domestic violence resources while we were gone. She showed us the list she’d made, but most programs were full or not set up for stalking cases involving mental illness. The ones that had availability were 2 hours away in a completely different part of the state. Going there would mean leaving. Doctor Elliot, the OB who’d been with me through this whole pregnancy and delivering at some hospital I’d never seen before with doctors I’d never met.

I was due in 2 weeks, but I didn’t know which hospital anymore or if I’d even have a doctor I trusted when the time came. Sam’s sister said we could stay as long as we needed, but her apartment had one bedroom, and we were sleeping on an air mattress in her living room with all our belongings stuffed into garbage bags in the corner.

 I kept thinking about the nursery we’d spent months setting up at our house with the crib Sam assembled and the changing table my mom bought and the little lamp shaped like a giraffe that I found at a yard sale. All of it was just sitting there empty while we hid two blocks away like criminals. My phone rang while I was staring at the wall trying not to cry again. Doctor.

 Elliot’s office number showed up on the screen and I almost didn’t answer because I figured they were calling to reschedule the appointment I’d missed when Jake showed up yesterday. But I picked up anyway and it was doctor. Elliot herself, not her receptionist. Her voice sounded different from usual, sharper somehow, and she asked if I was safe right now.

 I told her I was at Sam’s sister’s place, and she said, “Good, stay there.” Her office manager had called her at home last night after seeing the live stream video that someone sent to their Facebook page. She said she was implementing new security protocols immediately and moving all my remaining appointments to a private entrance in the back of the building that connected to the staff parking area.

 She’d make sure the front desk knew to never confirm I was a patient if anyone called, asking, and she’d personally walk me to my car after each visit. The anger in her voice when she said it shouldn’t have to be this way made me start crying again because someone actually understood how wrong this whole situation was. That night at Sam’s sister’s apartment I couldn’t sleep even though I was so tired my whole body achd.

 Every car that drove past outside made me jump and grab Sam’s arm, thinking maybe it was Jake or someone from that father’s rights group coming to find us. The baby was kicking hard against my ribs like she could feel my stress. And I put my hand on my stomach and whispered that I was sorry. so sorry for bringing her into this nightmare where her mom was hiding in someone else’s living room, scared of her own shadow.

 Sam held me and rubbed my back, but I could tell he wasn’t sleeping either because his breathing never got slow and steady like it did when he was actually out. The air mattress made squeaking sounds every time either of us moved, and I kept worrying we were keeping his sister awake in the next room. Around 6:00 in the morning, my phone rang and I saw my brother’s name on the screen. My stomach dropped because he never called this early unless something was wrong.

 I answered and he sounded strange, his voice flat like he’d been awake all night, too. He said Jess was gone. He’d come home from work yesterday afternoon and found her stuff cleared out of the closet, her toiletries gone from the bathroom, everything that was hers just vanished. She left a note on the kitchen counter that said she was staying with her parents in another state and needed space to think about everything.

 No apology, no explanation, just that one line about needing space like she was the victim in all this. I felt this surge of rage that was so strong it made my hands shake. Jess got to just run away while I was trapped here 9 months pregnant and terrified to go home to my own house. She created this whole disaster by feeding Jake’s delusions for months.

 And now she was hiding at her parents’ place while Jake’s followers were doxing me online and posting my workplace address on their forums. She got to escape the consequences of what she did while I was the one dealing with live streams and restraining orders and sleeping on an air mattress, wondering if someone was going to show up and try to take my baby.

 My brother kept apologizing like any of this was his fault, and I had to tell him to stop because I couldn’t handle him beating himself up when Jess was the one who should be drowning in guilt right now. Around 10 that morning, Detective Keith showed up at Sam’s sister’s apartment to take my statement for the restraining order modification.

 He was Miranda’s partner, and I’d met him once before, but didn’t really know him. He seemed gentle when he talked, asking questions in this calm voice, but he was also realistic in a way that scared me. He explained that even an emergency protective order wouldn’t actually stop someone in Jake’s mental state from trying to find me.

 The paper itself was just paper, and it only mattered if Jake cared about legal consequences, which someone having a psychotic break obviously didn’t. He said the order was still worth getting because it gave police more tools to arrest Jake if he violated it. But I shouldn’t think of it as some kind of shield that would actually keep me safe. While Keith was taking my statement, this woman named Jillian showed up and introduced herself as a victim advocate.

 She sat down at the table with us and started asking me questions I’d never even thought about, like, did Jake know Sam’s license plate number, or did any of my family members have public social media accounts where they might accidentally reveal our location? She asked if Jake knew where Sam’s parents lived or where I like to get coffee or what grocery store I used.

 Every question made me realize how many ways he could track me down, even if we were trying to hide. Jillian suggested I deactivate all my social media accounts and ask my family to do the same, at least temporarily. She said she’d seen too many cases where someone’s aunt or cousin posted something innocent, like a photo at a restaurant, and the person they were hiding from used the background details to figure out their location.

 She made me go through my Facebook friends list and my Instagram followers right there at the table, pointing out which people I barely knew who could potentially share information with Jake’s supporters without even meaning to cause harm. After Jillian and Keith left, I called my mom to ask her to shut down her Facebook account for a while.

 She started crying immediately and said she didn’t understand why she had to stop sharing pregnancy updates with her friends. I tried to explain that her friend list included people from church and her book club and her old job and any of those people could know someone who followed Jake’s page or supported his story. She kept saying her friends would never do that. They loved me. But I had to spell out that it wasn’t about her friends being malicious. It was about information spreading in ways we couldn’t control.

She finally agreed, but I could hear in her voice that she felt like I was punishing her for something she didn’t do. Sam spent the afternoon on the phone with the hospital where I was registered to deliver.

 He talked to someone in their security department who agreed to flag my file and put a note that ID checks were required for anyone trying to visit my room. But the security guy warned Sam that hospitals were semi-public spaces that were really hard to fully secure because people came and went constantly and staff couldn’t check every single person who walked through the doors.

 They do what they could, but he wanted us to have realistic expectations about what hospital security could actually accomplish. That afternoon, while I was trying to take a nap because the lack of sleep was making me feel sick, Sam came into the living room with his phone and his face looked gray.

 Someone had posted my full name, Sam’s full name. Both our workplaces and Sam’s parents address on a father’s rights forum. The post was titled, “Help Jake find his baby.” And it included instructions for people to call all these places demanding information about our whereabouts. Sam showed me the screenshots and I saw dozens of comments from people saying they’d already called my office or that they were planning to show up at Sam’s parents house to verify the situation. These people actually thought they were helping. Like Jake was

some kind of hero fighting against an unfair system instead of someone having a mental health crisis who’ threatened to kill me with a machete 3 years ago. Sam’s phone started ringing before we even made it to his sister’s place.

 He pulled over to check it and his face went white as he scrolled through missed calls. 23 calls in the last hour, all to his work number. His boss had texted him three times asking what was going on and whether Sam had given out his schedule to someone. The messages got more urgent with each one. Sam called his boss back and I could hear the frustration in the man’s voice, even from the passenger seat.

 People claiming to be Sam’s father, his cousin, even someone saying they were calling from his doctor’s office. All asking when Sam would be at work tomorrow and what his usual hours were. The receptionist had finally stopped answering calls about Sam entirely. And his boss wanted to know what kind of situation we were dealing with. Sam tried to explain without going into too much detail, but his boss cut him off and said he’d send a companywide email telling everyone not to give out employee information to anyone for any reason. I felt sick knowing Jake supporters had found Sam’s workplace that fast. The forum post with all our

information had only been up for a few hours, and already dozens of people were actively trying to track us down. My own phone buzzed with a text from Colt, the security guard at my office. He’d printed out Jake’s photo and posted it at the front desk with instructions to call police immediately if Jake appeared.

 Colt said he’d already turned away three different men that morning who matched Jake’s general description, though none of them had actually been Jake. One guy got angry when Colt asked for ID, insisting he had a meeting with someone on the fourth floor, but refusing to say who. Another man tried to walk past the desk entirely until Colt physically blocked his path.

 The third one had asked specifically if I was in the building today before Colt told him to leave. I texted back thanking Colt and asking him to keep me updated. The idea that Jake’s supporters were showing up at my workplace pretending to have legitimate business there made my stomach hurt. By the time we got to Sam’s sister’s apartment, I was exhausted in a way that went beyond just lack of sleep. My whole body felt heavy and wrong.

 I sat down on her couch and felt my belly tighten in a way that was different from the baby’s normal movements. The contraction lasted maybe 30 seconds before fading. And I tried to tell myself it was nothing. But 10 minutes later, another one came and then another 15 minutes after that. Sam noticed me holding my stomach and his eyes got wide.

 I told him I was fine, just stressed, but he insisted on calling the doctor’s office. The nurse who answered put me on hold and came back with instructions to come in right away if the contractions got closer together or more painful. She also said stress could definitely trigger Braxton Hicks contractions, but that I needed to be monitored given how close I was to my due date.

 When she transferred me to talk to doctor Elliot directly, the doctor’s voice was gentle but firm. She wanted me on modified bed rest, which meant staying off my feet as much as possible and avoiding any additional stress. I almost laughed at that last part because avoiding stress seemed impossible when I was hiding at Sam’s sister’s tiny apartment with Jake and his supporters actively hunting for me.

 Sam’s phone rang again and this time it was Sylvester, Jake’s case worker. Sam put it on speaker so I could hear. Sylvester sounded tired and frustrated as he explained he’d been trying to reach Jake all morning to arrange an emergency psychiatric evaluation. Jake wasn’t answering his phone and hadn’t shown up at his apartment.

 Sylvester had contacted Jake’s parents, but they hadn’t heard from him either and were worried. The problem, Sylvester explained, was that without Jake’s cooperation or an immediate violent act, the mental health system couldn’t force him into treatment. Even with all the evidence of his deteriorating condition and the restraining order violations unless Jake agreed to be evaluated or did something that created an immediate danger, Sylvester’s hands were tied.

 The frustration in his voice made it clear he understood how inadequate this was, but couldn’t change the systems limitations. Sam asked what would happen if Jake showed up at the hospital when I was in labor, and Sylvester went quiet for a long moment. I took the phone from Sam because I needed to hear the answer directly. Sylvester’s honesty was brutal, but I appreciated it more than false reassurance would have been. He said hospital security would be called and hopefully police, too.

 But there was no guarantee they could remove Jake before he got close to me. Hospitals were semi-public spaces with multiple entrances and constant traffic. Even with my file flagged and security on alert, someone determined enough could potentially get onto the maternity floor, especially if they claimed to be family or acted like they belonged there.

 The best protection would be using a fake name on my chart and having someone stationed outside my room during delivery, but even that wasn’t foolproof. Sylvester’s voice was sad when he said he wished he could promise me better protection, but he’d rather be honest about what was actually possible versus what I might hope for.

 After that call ended, Sam and I sat in silence for a few minutes before Detective Miranda called with an update. She’d been looking into safe house options for high-risisk domestic situations and found a place 2 hours away that specialized in cases like mine. The facility had security cameras, a code entry system, and staff trained in dealing with stalking situations involving mental illness.

 The downside was that it would mean leaving Doctor Elliot, and delivering at a hospital I’d never seen before with a doctor I’d never met. Miranda walked me through the pros and cons carefully, never pushing me toward a decision, but making it clear she thought staying in the area was becoming more dangerous. The forum post with our information had been shared hundreds of times across different platforms, and Jake’s Facebook page followers were actively coordinating efforts to find us.

 Some of them had started posting photos of places around town, asking if anyone had seen us there. Miranda said she’d already contacted the safe house coordinator, and they had space available starting tomorrow if we wanted it. Sam and I talked it over for about an hour, weighing the safety benefits against leaving everything familiar right before the baby came.

 Finally, I decided that keeping the baby safe mattered more than my comfort or convenience. I called Miranda back and told her we’d take the safe house placement. She said she’d arranged the transfer for the next morning and would personally drive us there to make sure we weren’t followed. The coordinator would meet us with keys and new temporary phone numbers that only a very small number of people would have access to.

 Miranda stressed that we couldn’t tell anyone the address, not even family members, because any leak could compromise the location. My brother could have the phone number, but that was it. The next morning, Detective Miranda picked us up before sunrise, and we drove 2 hours north to a town I’d never been to before. The safe house turned out to be a regular-look apartment in a secured building that didn’t stand out from the other residential buildings on the block.

 The coordinator, a woman named Beth, met us in the parking garage and walked us through the security protocols. Cameras covered every entrance and exit. The building had a code entry system that changed weekly. A panic button in the apartment connected directly to local police.

 Beth gave us new prepaid phones with numbers that weren’t connected to our names and explained we should only give those numbers to people we absolutely trusted. She’d already contacted the local hospital and arranged for my medical records to be transferred under a patient ID number instead of my name. Beth’s matter of fact tone made all of this feel almost normal, like she dealt with situations like mine every day. Maybe she did.

 Sam had to call his boss that afternoon and request unpaid leave because commuting back to his job would reveal our location. His boss was understanding, but Sam’s voice was tight when he hung up. We’d been counting on his paychecks to cover expenses after the baby came. And now we were burning through his savings to pay rent on an apartment we couldn’t use, plus rent on this safe house.

 Sam tried to hide how worried he was about money, but I could see it in the way he kept checking his bank balance on his phone. I felt guilty adding financial stress on top of everything else. Even though none of this was my fault, the baby kicked hard against my ribs like she could sense the tension and I rubbed my belly trying to calm both of us down. 2 days later, I had my first appointment with the new OBGYn who would deliver my baby.

 The office was smaller than Doctor Elliot’s practice and the waiting room had outdated magazines and worn carpet. The new doctor Avery was kind and thorough as she reviewed my file and doctor. Elliot’s detailed notes about my pregnancy. She asked good questions and seemed genuinely concerned about both my physical health and the stress I was under.

 But sitting in that unfamiliar exam room with a doctor I just met, I started crying and couldn’t stop. Doctor Elliot had been with me since my first appointment when I was 6 weeks along. She’d seen every ultrasound, answered every worried question, reassured me through every minor complication, and now I was here with a stranger who was perfectly competent, but didn’t know me at all.

 Doctor Avery handed me tissues and waited patiently while I cried, not rushing me or trying to fix it with empty words. When I finally stopped, she said she understood this wasn’t how I’d planned for things to go, but she’d do everything she could to make sure the delivery was safe and as positive as possible under the circumstances. That evening, my brother called the safe house number I’d given him, and his voice sounded strange.

 He’d been contacted by a lawyer representing Jess. The lawyer sent him a letter threatening to sue him for invasion of privacy for going through Jess’s phone and sharing the messages with me and the police. The letter claimed Jess’s private communications were protected and that my brother had violated her rights by accessing her phone without permission.

 My brother sounded stunned and hurt as he read parts of the letter out loud. After everything Jess had done, after actively feeding Jake’s delusions and putting me and the baby in danger, she was threatening to sue my brother for exposing her actions. I told my brother the messages were evidence in a criminal stalking case and that Jess had no legal ground to stand on.

 But the threat itself revealed how completely she still refused to take responsibility. She was positioning herself as the victim in this situation. Like my brother was the one who’d done something wrong by discovering the truth. I hung up with my brother and sat on the edge of the bed in the safe house apartment staring at my phone.

 Jess’s lawyer threatening to sue him for invasion of privacy was so twisted that I almost laughed. Except nothing about this was funny. My brother had discovered evidence that his girlfriend was actively helping my stalker and now she wanted to punish him for exposing her. I called him back and told him the messages were evidence in a criminal stalking case. They weren’t private communications. They were documentation of criminal activity.

 Jess had no legal ground to stand on and any halfway decent lawyer would tell her that. But the threat itself showed she still wasn’t taking responsibility for what she’d done. She was positioning herself as the victim here, like she was the one being wronged. My brother sounded exhausted when I explained this, and he promised to forward the lawyer’s letter to Detective Miranda.

 After we hung up, I tried to sleep, but couldn’t stop thinking about how Jess had spent months feeding Jake’s delusions while pretending to care about my safety. The next morning, Sam’s phone rang while we were eating breakfast.

 It was a number neither of us recognized, but Sam answered anyway because we’d given this temporary number to the police and my lawyer. The voice on the other end was Sylvester, Jake’s case worker. He asked if I was available to talk, and Sam handed me the phone with a worried expression. Sylvester apologized for calling so early, but said he needed to warn me about something. Jake had posted a video to his Facebook page overnight, and it was bad. Really bad.

 Sylvester sent me the link and told me to watch it before it got taken down. I opened the video with shaking hands while Sam moved closer to see the screen. Jake was standing somewhere outside filming himself with his phone. His face filled the frame, and his eyes looked strange, glassy, and unfocused. He was talking rapidly, barely pausing for breath about signs and messages he was receiving.

 He said the universe was telling him where to find me. He said our connection was so strong that I was calling to him through dimensions. He rambled about numbers he kept seeing, like the time on clocks and license plates that were all pointing him toward me.

 His eyes had this glazed quality that wasn’t there the last time I’d seen him, like he was looking at something just past the camera that nobody else could see. I watched the whole video twice, feeling sick. The comment section was already filling up with responses. Some people were encouraging him, telling him to trust his instincts and keep fighting. Others were expressing concern about his mental state, saying he needed help.

 One person wrote that he sounded manic and should go to a hospital. Another said the signs he was describing were classic delusion symptoms, but most of the comments were supportive, telling him he was on the right path and that truth would prevail. I scrolled down and saw someone had shared the video to three different fathers rights groups. Sylvester called back while I was still staring at my phone.

 He’d already contacted Jake’s psychiatrist and they were trying to arrange an emergency evaluation. He asked if I knew where Jake was in the video, and I felt my stomach drop when I recognized the building behind him. It was our old apartment, the place we’d shared 3 years ago before everything fell apart. Jake was standing on the sidewalk outside, talking about how I was calling to him through our connection.

 He kept saying the baby knew he was its real father, that the baby was reaching out to him spiritually. Sylvester worked fast. By that afternoon, he’d convinced Jake to come in for a psychiatric evaluation, probably by telling him it would help his custody case or something. I didn’t know exactly what Sylvester said, but it worked. Jake was placed on a 72-hour hold at the psychiatric hospital after the evaluation showed he was experiencing active delusions and had stopped taking his medication. Sylvester called to tell me this, and I felt a weird mix of emotions crash over me.

Relief that Jake was contained somewhere he couldn’t get to me. Guilt that someone I’d once cared about was suffering this way. Anger at Jess for making everything worse by feeding his delusions for months. Fear about what would happen when the 72 hours ended. I thanked Sylvester for getting Jake help and hung up, then burst into tears.

 Sam held me while I cried, not saying anything, just being there. The three days of Jake’s psychiatric hold were the first time I’d slept more than 4 hours straight in weeks. I didn’t realize how exhausted I was until I finally felt safe enough to really sleep. Sam and I tried to pretend this was a normal pregnancy during those three days.

 We watched movies on his laptop. Stupid comedies that didn’t require thinking. We assembled the portable crib we’d bought for the safe house apartment, reading the confusing instructions together and laughing when we put a piece on backwards. Sam made pasta for dinner and we ate on the couch, talking about baby names and what color to paint the nursery when we could eventually go home.

 For 72 hours, I let myself believe things might actually be okay. I put my hand on my belly and felt the baby kick, strong and healthy, and thought maybe we’d get through this after all. On day four, Sylvester called with news that shattered that brief piece. Jake was released from the psychiatric hold.

 The psychiatrist had determined he wasn’t an immediate danger to himself or others, which was apparently the only standard that mattered for keeping someone involuntarily. They’d restarted his medication and Jake had agreed to continue taking it. But Sylvester warned me it would take weeks for the medication to become fully effective and there was no guarantee Jake would actually keep taking it once he left the hospital.

 The psychiatrist had recommended outpatient treatment and regular check-ins with Sylvester, but none of that was legally required. Jake could walk out of the hospital and disappear if he wanted to. I asked Sylvester what I was supposed to do, and he was quiet for a long moment before saying he didn’t have a good answer.

 He’d do everything he could to monitor Jake’s condition, but the mental health system had major gaps in cases like this. I thanked him and hung up, then told Sam we needed to call Detective Miranda. I was 8 days from my due date when Detective Miranda called me with new information. Jake had appeared on security camera footage outside the hospital where I was registered to deliver. The new hospital, not my old one. Someone had figured out which hospital I transferred to.

 Miranda said it looked like someone had called every hospital within 50 mi, probably pretending to be family until they found the right one. The hospital where Jake was caught on camera matched the one in my medical records.

 Jake had been standing near the main entrance for over an hour before security noticed him and asked him to leave. He’d complied without incident, but the fact that he’d found the right hospital out of dozens of possibilities was terrifying. Miranda was already coordinating with hospital security to review all the footage and implement new safety protocols. The next day, I had a meeting at the hospital with their security director and detective Miranda.

 They showed me the camera footage of Jake standing outside the main entrance, pacing back and forth while staring at his phone. The security director explained the new protocols they were putting in place. When I went into labor, I’d enter through the emergency department entrance instead of the main maternity ward entrance. They’d use a fake name on my chart, probably something generic like James Smith.

 Security would be notified the moment I arrived at the hospital, and they’d have someone stationed outside my room throughout my stay. The security director was professional and thorough, but I could tell from his expression that he’d never had to implement protocols this extreme before. Detective Miranda added that she’d be on call when I went into labor, ready to respond immediately if Jake showed up.

 After the hospital meeting, I had an appointment with my lawyer to discuss the restraining order. She spread papers across her desk and explained our options, and they were all imperfect. We could get an emergency protective order extended, but enforcement depended entirely on police response time, and Jake’s willingness to comply with the order. If Jake decided to violate the restraining order, the police would respond as quickly as possible.

 But there would always be a gap between when he showed up and when officers arrived. My lawyer was honest that the legal system wasn’t designed for cases where mental illness and stalking intersected like this. The restraining order assumed the person being restrained was making rational choices and would be deterred by legal consequences. But Jake wasn’t making rational choices.

 He genuinely believed he was the baby’s father, and that he had a right to be involved. Legal threats meant nothing to someone operating in a completely different reality. That afternoon, I met with Jillian, the victim advocate, for more safety planning. She asked me to sit down, and then she was quiet for a moment before speaking. She wanted to be completely honest with me about something.

 The highest risk period was going to be right after the baby was born. Jake’s entire delusion centered on the baby. Right now, the baby was inside my body, which meant Jake’s fixation was somewhat abstract. But the moment the baby existed outside my body as a real, separate person, his fixation would intensify.

 He’d see the birth as his chance to finally claim what he believed was his. Jillian had worked with enough stalking cases to know that delusional thinking often escalated around trigger events, and birth was the ultimate trigger event in this situation. She helped me create additional safety plans for the postpartum period, including how to leave the hospital safely and where Sam and I would stay for the first few weeks after birth.

 Every plan felt inadequate, like we were trying to build a wall out of paper, but it was better than having no plan at all. That evening, Sam and I sat in the safe house apartment with the door locked and every light on. He pulled up a notepad on his phone and we went through scenarios that made my stomach hurt.

 If Jake somehow got into my hospital room during delivery, Sam would say the code word we’d been practicing. The word was lighthouse because it was random and we’d never say it by accident. When Sam said lighthouse, it meant grab the baby and get to safety no matter what else was happening. The nurse would take the baby to the nursery through the staff corridor while security dealt with Jake. We practiced it three times until Sam’s voice didn’t shake when he said the word.

 The fact that we needed this plan at all made me feel sick. This was supposed to be the happiest time of our lives, planning for our baby’s arrival, and instead we were creating emergency evacuation procedures like we were preparing for a natural disaster. Six days before my due date, I was scrolling through Instagram when a message request popped up from an account I didn’t recognize.

 The profile picture showed a woman with dark hair and the username was something generic. I almost deleted it without reading, but something made me click. The message was long and started with an apology for reaching out. The woman said her name was Rosie and she’d dated Jake 5 years ago before his diagnosis.

 She’d seen his Facebook page about fighting for his baby before it got taken down and she needed me to know I wasn’t alone. Jake had done similar things to her after they broke up. He’d convinced himself they were still together. then that they were married, then that she was keeping their non-existent child from him. She’d filed three restraining orders and finally had to move to Oregon to get away from him.

 Reading her message made my hands shake because it was like looking at my future written out by someone who’d already lived it. Rosie said she was terrified seeing Jake do this again, but worse this time because I was actually pregnant. She offered to talk if I needed someone who understood and she gave me her phone number. I called Rosie that night after Sam went to bed. She answered on the second ring and her voice was kind but tired, like she’d been carrying this weight for years.

 She told me about the 6 months after their breakup when Jake would show up at her apartment at 3:00 in the morning, convinced they had plans to go somewhere together. He’d bring coffee and breakfast sandwiches, talking about their day ahead like they were still dating. When she got a restraining order, he started leaving gifts on her car, flowers, stuffed animals, jewelry he couldn’t afford.

 He was spending his entire paycheck on presents for someone who didn’t want them. The worst part, Rosie said, was that he genuinely believed they were married. He’d show people a wedding photo that he’d edited to put her face next to his, and he’d talk about their anniversary like it was real. His family tried to get him help, but he kept refusing treatment because he didn’t think anything was wrong.

 Finally, Rosie packed everything she owned into her car, and drove 18 hours to her sister’s place in Portland. She changed her phone number, deleted all social media, and started over. That was 3 years ago, and she still checks over her shoulder in parking lots. Hearing her story made me realize that even after the baby was born, even if Jake got proper treatment, this fear might never completely go away.

 The next morning, my brother forwarded me an email from Jess with the subject line, “I’m sorry.” He sent it without comment, just the forwarded message, because I’d blocked her on everything after discovering what she’d done. The email was six paragraphs long, and I had to read it twice because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Jess wrote about how she didn’t understand the full situation and thought she was helping everyone involved.

 She said she believed Jake deserved to know about the baby because excluding people based on mental illness was wrong. She claimed she was trying to help me too by facilitating a conversation that would let Jake accept reality and move on. Every paragraph was packed with excuses wrapped in apology language. She was sorry I felt hurt. Sorry things got complicated.

 Sorry the situation escalated beyond what she intended. But there was no real accountability anywhere in the message. No acknowledgement that she’d actively fed Jake’s delusions for months. That she’d sent him private information after I explicitly told her not to. That she’d enabled a dangerous stalker to find me and terrorize me.

 The email ended with a line about how she hoped someday I’d understand she was coming from a place of love and compassion. I wanted to throw my phone across the room. I didn’t respond to Jess because anything I could say would be too small for the rage I felt. My brother called an hour after sending the email and said he wasn’t responding either.

 His voice was flat and sad when he told me he’d started seeing a therapist twice a week to process how completely he’d misjudged someone he thought he loved. He’d been with Jess for 2 years, talked about marriage, trusted her judgment, and the whole time she’d been capable of this level of betrayal. The therapist was helping him understand that loving someone doesn’t mean you really know them and that trust can be a blind spot that lets people hide who they really are.

 My brother said he kept thinking about all the times Jess had seemed so caring and empathetic and now he wondered if it was all performance or maybe she really did think she was being caring, which was somehow worse because it meant her judgment was so broken she couldn’t tell help from harm. 4 days before my due date, I woke up at 3:00 in the morning with a contraction that felt different from the Braxton Hicks I’d been having for weeks.

 This one was stronger, more focused, and it wrapped around my entire belly like a tight band. I lay still and waited, breathing slowly, and 8 minutes later, another one came. Then another 7 minutes after that, Sam woke up when I gasped through the fourth contraction, and he immediately grabbed his phone to start timing them.

 We lay in bed in the dark while he tracked each contraction with the app, watching the pattern develop. 15 minutes became a clear rhythm of contractions every 7 to 8 minutes, each one lasting about 40 seconds. I tried to breathe through the pain while my mind raced through everything that could go wrong. What if Jake found out I was in labor? What if he was already watching the hospital? What if the security measures weren’t enough? Sam kept his hand on my belly and told me to focus on breathing.

That we had a plan and people protecting us, but I could hear the fear in his voice, too. By morning, the contractions had spaced out to every 15 minutes, then 20. Then they stopped completely. Sam called Elliot and described what had happened, and she said it sounded like false labor. My body was preparing for delivery, but wasn’t ready yet.

 She told us to rest and stay hydrated. That real labor would feel more intense and the contractions wouldn’t stop when I changed positions or rested. I felt relieved and disappointed at the same time. Relieved because I wasn’t ready. We needed more time to feel safe, but disappointed because every extra day was another day Jake could find us. Sam made me breakfast while I sat on the couch feeling the baby move inside me.

 These little kicks and rolls that reminded me why we were doing all of this. I was grateful for a few more days in this apartment where we could pretend everything was normal. That afternoon, Detective Miranda called with news that made my blood run cold. Jake had posted another video to a backup Facebook account that had been up for 6 hours before anyone reported it.

 The platform removed it for violating community standards. Thousands of people had already seen it and downloaded copies. Miranda sent me the link to a mirror site where someone had reposted it, and I watched with Sam’s arm around me. Jake was sitting in what looked like a coffee shop, talking directly to the camera with this intense focus in his eyes.

 He explained his plan to be at the hospital when our baby was born because he had rights as a father. He talked about parental alienation and discrimination against people with mental illness, using all the language he’d learned from the father’s rights groups. His voice was calm and rational, which somehow made it more frightening than if he’d been ranting. He genuinely believed every word he was saying.

 Near the end of the video, he mentioned specific hospital names in the area, saying he’d figured out which one I’d be using based on my insurance provider. He was going through them systematically, he said, and he’d be there when the time came. Miranda called me right after I finished watching the video. She’d already been in contact with hospital security at all three facilities Jake mentioned and they were increasing patrols and adding my photo to their alert systems.

 She explained that she’d be on call when I went into labor with her phone on loud 24 hours a day ready to respond if Jake showed up. The hospital where I was actually registered had already implemented their security plan, but now they were adding extra measures. Miranda sounded frustrated when she told me this, like she was tired of working within system limitations that let Jake keep getting close.

 She promised they’d do everything possible to keep me safe. But I could hear in her voice that she knew everything possible still left gaps that Jake could slip through. 2 days before my due date, I woke up at 5:00 in the morning and knew immediately that this was different. The contraction that woke me was strong and low, wrapping around my belly and back in a way that took my breath away.

 I grabbed Sam’s shoulder and he was awake instantly, already reaching for his phone. Another contraction came 6 minutes later, then another 5 minutes after that. These weren’t stopping or spacing out like the false labor. These were building, getting stronger and closer together, and my body was telling me it was time.

 Sam started loading the car with our hospital bag while I breathed through contractions in the bedroom, and I called Miranda to tell her we were heading in. She said she’d meet us at the emergency entrance with backup, and her voice was calm and steady in a way that helped me focus. This was happening. Our baby was coming, and whatever Jake tried to do, we had people ready to stop him.

 Sam’s phone was already in his hand before the next contraction hit, and he was pulling up Miranda’s number while I tried to breathe through the tightening in my belly. The call connected on the second ring and I heard her voice come through the speaker, steady and alert even at 5:00 in the morning. Sam explained we were heading to the hospital now, contractions 5 minutes apart and getting stronger, and she said she’d be at the emergency entrance in 20 minutes with backup. I grabbed the hospital bag we’d packed 3 weeks ago and checked it for the third time that morning, making sure

we had my ID and insurance card and the fake name paperwork the hospital had prepared. Another contraction rolled through me, and I had to stop moving. One hand pressed against the wall while my body worked towards something I couldn’t control. Sam loaded everything into the car and came back to help me down the stairs, his arm around my waist as we moved slowly through the dark apartment.

 The drive to the hospital took 15 minutes, but felt longer with contractions coming every 4 minutes now and my fingers digging into the door handle each time one peaked. Sam kept glancing over at me between watching the road, and I could see the fear in his face, even though he was trying to hide it.

 We pulled up to the emergency entrance, and Miranda was already there with two uniformed officers standing beside her cruiser, exactly like she’d promised. She came straight to my door and helped me out while Sam parked and the officers flanked us as we walked through the automatic doors into the bright fluorescent lighting of the emergency department. They took us through a side hallway instead of the main waiting area, moving fast through corridors that smelled like antiseptic and floor cleaner.

 A nurse met us at the elevator and scanned her badge to access the labor and delivery floor, and nobody asked me my name or checked any paperwork yet. We got off on the third floor and the nurse led us to a room at the end of the hall away from the main nurse’s station and Miranda stayed right outside the door while one of the officers positioned himself at the hallway entrance. The room looked like every hospital room I’d ever seen with monitors and equipment and a bed with rails, but there was a second door that the nurse showed me led to a private bathroom. She helped me into a gown while Sam put our bags in the corner and she explained that my chart was under

the name Jane Smith and that every computer in the system had an alert flagging that no information about any patient matching my description could be given to anyone. She checked my blood pressure and temperature and asked about my contractions, writing everything down on a tablet without once using my real name.

 Another nurse came in to start an IV and check how far dilated I was, and her hands were gentle but professional as she worked. 4 cm, she said, and labor was moving along well for a first baby. She smiled at me like this was a normal delivery, like there weren’t police officers outside my door and a stalker who might show up at any moment. I tried to smile back, but another contraction hit and I had to focus on breathing, counting through it the way the prenatal class had taught me.

 Sam held my hand and counted with me, his voice low and steady, even though I could feel his palm sweating against mine. The next two hours passed in a blur of contractions and breathing and the nurses coming in to check my progress. I was at 6 cm when the nurse’s expression changed, her smile dropping as she glanced toward the door.

 She excused herself and left the room quickly. And through the window, I could see her talking to Miranda in the hallway, both of them looking serious. Miranda pulled out her phone and made a call while the nurse came back in, her professional smile back in place, but not quite reaching her eyes. She told me everything was fine and asked if I needed anything for the pain, but I could tell something had happened.

 Sam asked what was going on, and the nurse hesitated before saying that security had just escorted someone away from the maternity ward entrance. Someone who matched Jake’s description. They were reviewing camera footage now to confirm it was him, she said. and security was on high alert. My whole body went cold despite the warmth of the room. And the baby kicked hard against my ribs like she could sense my fear.

 Another contraction came, but I barely felt it through the panic rising in my chest. The knowledge that Jake was here in this building trying to get to me while I was trapped in this bed. Miranda came into the room 10 minutes later, and her face confirmed what I already knew. It was Jake on the security footage, she said, trying to get past the locked doors into the maternity ward.

 He’d told the security guard he was here for his baby’s birth and became agitated when they wouldn’t let him through. The hospital had called the police and Jake was arrested for violating the restraining order, currently being held at the police station downtown. Miranda’s voice was calm, but I could hear the frustration underneath and she warned me that he’d likely be released within hours unless they could arrange another psychiatric hold.

 “The system moved too slowly,” she said, and Jake knew how to stay just inside the legal boundaries most of the time. Sam asked what would happen if Jake came back, and Miranda explained that security was now on the highest alert level. that every entrance to the maternity ward was monitored, that they’d call police immediately if he appeared again.

 But I could see in her eyes that she knew these measures weren’t perfect, that determined people found ways around security systems all the time. I was at 7 cm when Sam’s phone rang and he answered it quickly. Stepping away from the bed to talk, I watched his face change as he listened, saw relief and worry mixing together in his expression.

 He hung up and came back to tell me it was Sylvester calling from the police station where he’d gone to advocate for Jake. He was trying to convince the judge to order Jake transferred to psychiatric emergency services instead of just releasing him. Arguing that Jake’s hospital breach attempt and increasingly unstable behavior warranted a longer evaluation this time. Sylvester thought he could make it work. Sam said thought he could get Jake into a facility for at least a few days.

 I wanted to feel relieved, but another contraction hit, stronger than the ones before, and the nurse checked me again and said it was time to start pushing soon. My body was doing what it needed to do regardless of what was happening outside this room.

 Moving toward the moment when my daughter would exist in the world, and Jake’s obsession would have a real target instead of just an idea. The next hour disappeared into the physical intensity of labor, pushing when the nurses told me to push and breathing when they told me to breathe. Sam stayed right beside me, holding my hand, and I could see tears in his eyes, even as he smiled and encouraged me.

 The doctor came in and took her position at the end of the bed, and I could see two security guards standing outside the door through the window. One more push,” the doctor said. And I felt my daughter slide into the world at exactly 4:47 p.m. according to the clock on the wall. They placed her on my chest immediately, and she was perfect, tiny, and red and crying with dark hair plastered to her head and Sam’s nose.

 I cried from joy and relief and the fear that was still there underneath everything. All of it mixing together as I held my daughter for the first time. Sam was crying, too. His hand on the baby’s back as we both stared at her. And for just a moment, nothing else existed except this perfect small person we’d made together. The nurses cleaned her up and weighed her while I delivered the placenta.

 And then they brought her back wrapped in a blanket with a tiny hat covering her hair. 7 lb 3 o. They said completely healthy. Sam cut the cord and held her while they helped me get cleaned up. And I watched him looking at our daughter with such fierce love on his face. The security guard stayed outside the door the whole time, and I could see Miranda talking on her phone in the hallway.

 She came in about an hour later with news that Jake had been transferred to a psychiatric facility for a 14-day evaluation hold based on his hospital breach attempt and deteriorating mental state. Sylvester had convinced the judge, she said, and Jake would be in a secure facility for at least 2 weeks. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it gave us time.

 Time to bond with the baby without looking over our shoulders constantly. I felt some of the tension leave my body for the first time in weeks. Even though I knew this was just temporary safety that night, I barely slept, even though I was exhausted from labor. Every footstep in the hallway made me tense. Every voice outside the door made my heart race.

 The nurses came in every few hours to check on me and the baby, and each time the door opened, I jumped. Sam took the baby for a few hours around 3:00 in the morning so I could try to rest, walking her up and down the hallway with one of the security guards following at a distance. But even with my eyes closed, I couldn’t fully relax. Couldn’t stop my mind from circling around all the whatifs and worst case scenarios.

 I kept thinking about Jake in that psychiatric facility, wondering if he was getting better or just getting angrier. wondering what would happen when the 14 days were up. The baby slept in short bursts between feedings, and when she was awake, she looked at me with dark eyes that seemed to see everything.

 I held her and felt fierce protective love rising up in me, stronger than any fear. And I whispered promises to her that I’d figure out how to keep her safe no matter what came next. We named her Sophie the next morning after Sam’s grandmother. And when I said the name out loud while holding her, it felt right. Sophie, our daughter. The nurses brought me breakfast and helped me learn to breastfeed. And slowly, the hospital routine started to feel almost normal.

Detective Miranda visited on day two with an update that made me feel a tiny bit better about everything. Jake’s Facebook page had been permanently removed for coordinating harassment, she said, and several members of the father’s rights group were facing charges for their role in the doxing campaign. It wasn’t everything, but it was something, some small consequence for the people who’d helped Jake terrorize me.

 Miranda sat in the chair beside my bed and held Sophie for a few minutes, and I saw her face soften as she looked at the baby. She’d keep working the case, she promised. Keep pushing for longerterm solutions, even though the system made it hard. I thanked her and meant it, grateful for someone who actually seemed to care about what happened to us.

 3 days after Sophie was born, we packed up the hospital room and headed back to the safe house apartment. Sam carried her car seat while I walked slowly behind, still sore from delivery, but trying not to show it. The security guard at the building entrance checked our IDs twice before letting us through, which should have felt intrusive, but instead made me feel safer.

 Sam’s parents were already waiting in the apartment when we got there, having gone through the same security check and gotten temporary access codes. His mother stood up when we walked in and her hands went to her mouth. She’d seen photos, but this was different. Seeing Sophie in person for the first time, I watched her cross the room and looked down at the baby still sleeping in her carrier. And then she started crying. Not loud sobs, but quiet tears running down her face while she pressed her fingers to her lips.

 Sam’s father put his arm around her shoulders, and they both just stared at Sophie for what felt like forever. When Sam’s mother finally held her granddaughter, she sat down carefully on the couch and cradled Sophie against her chest. She looked up at me and I saw something in her expression that made my throat tight. It was fierce and protective and determined.

 The same feeling I’d been carrying since Sophie was born. We weren’t just protecting my baby anymore. This was all of our fight now. 2 weeks later, I was sitting on the couch with Sophie asleep on my chest when Sylvester called. My body tensed automatically when I saw his name, preparing for bad news, but his voice sounded different this time, cautiously hopeful instead of worried.

 Jake was responding to the medication adjustments, he said. And the psychiatric team had gotten him to acknowledge some of his delusions during therapy sessions. It was early progress and uncertain, Sylvester warned me. There were no guarantees, and Jake could backslide at any time. But the doctors thought long-term treatment might actually help him rebuild his understanding of reality.

 I thanked Sylvester and hung up, then looked down at Sophie’s sleeping face. We were staying in the safe house for now, taking everything one day at a time. Sam had started looking for work he could do remotely so we wouldn’t have to leave the secured building. We’d turned the second bedroom into a nursery and bought a white noise machine and blackout curtains to help Sophie sleep.

 My brother called every Thursday evening, and we talked for an hour while we both processed everything in our separate therapy sessions. He’d started seeing a counselor who specialized in betrayal trauma, trying to understand how he’d missed all the signs with Jess. She hadn’t tried contacting anyone since she left. The online harassment had faded as Jake’s supporters found new causes to rally around.

 I was seeing a therapist, too, someone who worked with postpartum trauma, learning to separate my justified fear from anxiety that didn’t serve me anymore. Some mornings I woke up before Sophie and just watched her sleep in the bassinet next to our bed. Her tiny chest rising and falling, her miniature fingers curled into fists, her dark eyelashes resting against her cheeks.

 I marveled that something so beautiful and perfect came from such darkness and chaos. And I felt grateful, genuinely grateful that we’d survived to build this imperfect but precious life