I was walking down the street when two girls I’d never seen before called my name and said, “Ryan, this is super weird, but our best friend’s baby shower is happening right now. Can you please pretend to be her boyfriend and the father?”

They looked desperate and explained her ex was insane, had tried to burn their house down while she was inside, and was coming at 3 p.m. to reclaim what’s his. Against every logical thought, I followed them into this house covered in pink balloons and baby‑girl banners.

“I was walking down the street when these two girls I’ve never seen before called my name. Ryan, this is super weird, but our best friend’s baby shower is happening right now. Can you please pretend to be her boyfriend and the father?”

I did a double take. They looked so desperate.

“Her ex is insane. He’s tried to burn their house down while she was in. He’s going to show up at some point, and we need someone who can scare him off.”

I’m 6′4″ and apparently look like I eat nails for breakfast, so I get why they picked me. But this was insane.

“How do you even know my name?”

“Your gym bag,” one said, pointing at the tag. “Please. He said he’s coming at 3 p.m. to reclaim what’s his. It’s 2:15.”

Against every logical thought, I followed them into this house covered in pink balloons and baby‑girl banners. The living room was packed with women who all turned to stare at me. Then I saw her—Becky from my comparative lit class sophomore year—the girl I’d spent an entire semester trying to work up the courage to talk to. Now eight months pregnant, looking exhausted. It seemed like the worst joke the universe has ever played.

“Everyone, this is Ryan,” the girls announced. “The father.”

Becky’s eyes went wide, recognizing me, but she played along.

“Hey, babe,” she said weakly.

Her friend pulled me aside.

“Richard’s been sending videos all morning. He’s unhinged. Just stand there and look protective until he shows up and leaves.”

I stood by Becky’s chair while she opened presents. The party tried to feel normal, but everyone was tense. Her phone buzzed. She showed me a video from Richard: “On my way to get what’s mine. Hope you didn’t think you could replace me.”

“This is the sixth one today,” Becky whispered.

An older woman, maybe an aunt, said quietly to another guest, “Remember when Richard threw that bottle at her head at Christmas?”

Becky’s mom approached me. “Thank you for doing this. Last time he showed up somewhere, he broke her friend’s nose for interfering.”

Another video came through at 2:30—Richard in his truck: “Tell everyone to clear out unless they want problems.”

The room got quieter. People kept glancing at the windows. At 2:40, another text: “Nice pink decorations. Almost there.”

A friend mentioned, “He knows which house. He’s probably driving by.”

Becky tried to focus on opening a baby onesie, but her hands were shaking. “Last time he came to a party,” someone whispered, “four people went to the ER.”

At 2:50, Becky’s phone rang. She put it on speaker by accident. Richard’s voice filled the room: “I see you have people over. That’s cute. Ten minutes.”

The entire party shifted away from the front of the house. Women were grabbing their kids, moving them to back rooms.

“Should we call the police now?” Becky’s mom asked.

“They won’t come until something happens,” someone responded. “We tried before.”

At 2:55, a text with a photo of the house from outside: “I counted about twenty cars. Hope your new man is ready.”

Becky stood behind me instinctively. The room was silent except for some kids’ cartoon playing in the background.

Three p.m. exactly. A truck engine revving outside. Music blasting then cutting off. Heavy footsteps on the porch. The door didn’t knock. It just opened.

Richard walked in like he owned the place—6′2″, neck tattoos, a tank top that showed military ink covering his arms. His eyes scanned the room until they found me.

“So, you’re the replacement.” His voice was calm, which was somehow worse. “I’m here for Becky. You need to leave.”

He laughed. “They hired security. That’s adorable.”

“I’m not security. I’m the father.”

His whole demeanor changed—face from amused to deadly. “The f— you just say?”

Becky stepped slightly out from behind me. “You heard him, Richard. That’s my kid.”

“Becky. Four years together.”

“No, Richard. We broke up ten months ago. Do the math.”

He took a step forward, but I blocked his path.

“This is a family event,” I said. “You’re not family.”

“Family?” He looked around the room. “These people watched me and her for years. Tell him. Tell him whose baby that is.”

Becky’s mom’s voice was steel. “Someone who isn’t welcome in my home.”

Richard’s face went red. “You old—”

I stepped directly in front of him. “Watch your mouth.”

He looked up at me, really seeing the size difference for the first time.

“You think being tall means crap? I’ve killed bigger men than you overseas.”

“And I’m supposed to be impressed?”

“Richard,” Becky said, voice stronger now. “You got the DNA test results. You know it’s not yours.”

“Those tests can be faked.”

“Then take another one,” I said. “Through the court. But today you leave.”

He looked around—twenty phones pointed at him, one of Becky’s friends holding a golf club, me blocking his path to Becky.

“This isn’t over,” he said, backing toward the door. “Not even close.” He pointed at me. “I’ll find out everything about you.”

“Good luck with that.”

He slammed the door so hard a picture fell off the wall. Everyone started breathing again. Becky collapsed into a chair.

“Thank you,” she whispered to me. “You don’t know what you just did.”

Her mom was crying with relief. “He actually left. He never just leaves.”

We tried to resume the party, but everyone was still shaking. Becky opened a few more gifts half‑heartedly.

About twenty minutes later, I walked Becky to my car to grab something. We found all four tires slashed.

“Oh my God,” Becky gasped.

Then her phone buzzed—a text from Richard with a photo of my license plate: “Ryan, Berkeley graduate. 3712 Pine Avenue, Apartment 6C. See you soon, hero.”

My blood went cold. He had my address. I stood there staring at my phone screen, reading Richard’s text over and over.

Becky was still next to me, looking at my slashed tires, and I could feel her shaking.

“Ryan, I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “This is all my fault.”

Before I could respond, women from the baby shower started coming out of the house. They gathered in the driveway, forming a protective circle around us. Blake pushed through the group, her phone already pressed to her ear.

“Yes, we need an officer at 4782 Maple Street,” she was saying. “There’s been property damage and threats.”

I kept looking at my tires—four neat slashes in each one. Richard had taken his time, made sure I couldn’t drive anywhere. The women around us were talking all at once, voices overlapping with worry and anger.

Fifteen minutes later, a police officer pulled up. She was young, maybe mid‑20s, and looked tired already. She took photos of my tires, wrote down what happened, but I could tell from her face this wasn’t going to go anywhere.

“So, he threatened you via text message and damaged your property,” she said, reviewing her notes. “But you didn’t actually see him slash the tires.”

“Who else would it be?” Lauren asked. “He literally just left after threatening everyone.”

The officer sighed. “Without proof it was him specifically, and without direct physical harm, there’s not much we can do. The threats would need to be more specific. Saying ‘soon’ isn’t technically a threat of violence.”

Everyone started talking at once. Someone mentioned the Christmas incident. Another person brought up the broken nose. The officer just kept shaking her head.

“Has he actually hurt someone today? Right now?” she asked.

“He has to hurt someone first?” Blake’s voice was sharp.

“I’m sorry. That’s how the law works. You can file for a restraining order.”

“We tried that,” Becky said quietly. “His lawyer got the last one thrown out. Said I was being vindictive because of the pregnancy.”

The officer left after giving me a case number for insurance. We all stood in the driveway, nobody quite sure what to do next.

Lauren was the first to speak up. “We’ll drive you to your apartment. You need to get your stuff.”

“I can’t ask you to—”

“You’re not asking,” Samantha interrupted. “We’re telling you. Come on.”

Becky grabbed my arm as I turned to go. “You can’t go back there. Not to stay. He knows where you live.”

Her mom nodded. “You’re staying here tonight. We have a guest room.”

I wanted to argue—to say this wasn’t my problem, that I’d already done enough—but looking at Becky’s face, seeing the fear there, I knew I’d already crossed a line. There was no walking away from this now.

The drive to my apartment was quiet. Lauren drove while Samantha kept checking the mirrors, making sure nobody was following us. When we got there, my building looked the same as always, but everything felt different—dangerous.

“Make it quick,” Lauren said. “In and out.”

My apartment was on the sixth floor. We took the stairs because Samantha said elevators were traps—nowhere to run if Richard showed up. Inside, I grabbed a duffel bag and started throwing clothes in. Laptop, charger, some work files. My hands were shaking, which made me angry. I wasn’t supposed to be the one running scared.

My neighbor, Mr. Chen, poked his head out as we were leaving. “Everything okay, Ryan? These ladies friends of yours?”

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” I lied, then thought better of it. “Actually, if you see a guy with neck tattoos asking about me, call 911.”

His face went serious. “Trouble, maybe. Just be careful.”

Back at Blake’s house, we sat around the kitchen table like we were planning a war. Becky had her phone out, scrolling through months of messages from Richard. Each one worse than the last.

“Look at this one,” she said, showing me a text from three weeks ago—a photo of her at a grocery store with the message: “Nice melons you’re buying.”

“And this.” Another photo—her at a doctor’s appointment. “Hope the baby’s healthy. Would be a shame if something happened.”

Blake pulled out a thick folder and dropped it on the table. It made a heavy sound. “Police reports,” she said. “Two years’ worth. Nothing ever sticks.”

I flipped through them. Harassment. Stalking. Property damage. Violation of restraining order. Each one stamped: no further action or insufficient evidence.

“He knows exactly how far he can push,” Blake explained. “Never quite crosses the line into something they can prosecute, and he’s smart about alibis.”

By 9:00, we were cleaning up the baby‑shower decorations. Pink streamers came down, balloons got popped, the BABY GIRL banner folded away. It felt wrong, packing away what should have been happy memories.

Blake was washing dishes while I helped dry. “You need to understand something,” she said quietly. “That fire he set—Becky barely made it out. She was sleeping, woke up to smoke. If her roommate hadn’t come home early—” She didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.

“The investigator said it was electrical,” she continued. “But we know. Richard was supposedly at a bar with friends. They all backed him up. He’s always got someone ready to lie for him.”

My phone rang. Unknown number. I almost didn’t answer, but Blake nodded at me to pick up.

“Hello?”

“Ryan. Buddy.” Richard’s voice was friendly, like we were old friends. “Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t we meet up? Just the two of us. Talk this out like men.”

I looked at Blake, who was already grabbing a pen and paper. I put the phone on speaker.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Richard.”

“Come on, man. You seem like a reasonable guy. This is all just a big misunderstanding. Becky and I, we have history. You get that, right? Sometimes couples fight.”

“You’re not a couple. You haven’t been for ten months.”

His voice got harder. “That’s what she told you. Let me guess—she also told you the baby isn’t mine.”

“The DNA test told me that.”

Silence for a moment. Then Richard laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “Those tests can be wrong. Labs make mistakes. But hey, we can sort all this out. How about tomorrow? Coffee? I know you like that place on Third Street.”

My stomach turned. He’d been watching me long enough to know where I got coffee.

“I’m going to hang up now, Richard.”

“That’s fine. We’ll talk soon. Real soon.”

The line went dead. Blake had written down the number, the time, everything.

Half an hour later, Becky came downstairs in pajamas, holding her belly. “Can’t sleep. The baby’s doing gymnastics.” She sat down carefully on the couch. I could see how tired she was—not just from today, but from months of this.

“I’m sorry you got pulled into this,” she said.

“It’s not your fault.”

She laughed, but it was bitter. “I picked him. I stayed with him even after the first time he hit me.”

Blake started to say something, but Becky kept going. “He cried after, got on his knees, begged me to forgive him, said it was the stress from his deployment, that he’d get help—and I believed him.” She rubbed her belly where I could see the baby moving. “He was so charming at first. Brought me flowers every week. Knew exactly what to say.”

“That’s how they work,” Blake said softly.

“The control started small,” Becky continued. “Didn’t like my friends. Thought my clothes were too revealing. Got upset if I didn’t text back fast enough. By the time I realized what was happening, I was already trapped.”

The next morning, I woke up on Blake’s couch to the sound of her on the phone. My back hurt and my neck was stiff, but that wasn’t important. Blake was pacing, her voice tight with anger.

“No, you don’t understand. He’s escalating. Yesterday was just the beginning. Yes, I’ll hold.”

She covered the phone and looked at me. “Lawyer. Richard sent emails overnight—emails to everyone. Becky’s boss, her landlord, her cousins—he even found her high school friends on Facebook. He’s telling them all she’s mentally unstable, that she’s keeping his baby from him.”

Becky came down the stairs slowly, one hand on her back. “He’s trying to destroy my life. Make it so I have nowhere to go except back to him.”

The lawyer, when Blake got her back on the line, confirmed what we already knew. “It’s character assassination,” Blake repeated. “Common tactic. Destroy her credibility before his next move.”

By noon, we were at the police station. Detective Jerome Douly was older, maybe fifty, with gray hair and tired eyes. He’d seen this before—you could tell.

“Mr. Thompson. Ms. Martinez,” he said, reading our statements. “I understand your frustration, but Richard hasn’t technically broken any laws.”

“He slashed my tires,” I said.

“Can you prove it was him? Any witnesses? Video?”

“He sent me a text right after with my address.”

“That’s circumstantial. Could be coincidence.”

Becky laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Coincidence. Right.”

Douly leaned forward. “Look, I believe you. I’ve been doing this twenty years. I know his type. But the law needs proof. Hard evidence. Get security cameras. Document everything.”

“The moment he crosses the line,” Becky finished, “someone has to get hurt first.”

“I’m sorry. That’s how the system works.”

We left the station feeling worse than when we’d arrived. Lauren was waiting outside to drive us to Becky’s apartment. She needed more clothes, especially with the baby coming so soon. But when we got to Becky’s building, her apartment door was slightly open.

“Don’t,” Lauren said as Becky reached for the handle. “Let me.”

Lauren pushed the door open with her foot. The apartment looked normal at first—nothing obviously disturbed. Kitchen clean, living room tidy. But then Becky gasped. On her pillow was a tiny pink bootie—one from yesterday’s baby shower.

“He was here,” Becky whispered. “He has a key. He was in my bedroom.”

I pulled out my phone to call the police, but we all knew what they’d say. No forced entry, nothing stolen, nothing damaged—just a bootie on a pillow.

“He’s showing me he can get to me whenever he wants,” Becky said, backing out of the apartment.

Blake called a locksmith while we waited in the hallway. Three hours and $500 later, every lock was changed. The locksmith, an older guy named Frank, shook his head as he worked. “Third job like this this week,” he said. “Lot of women with ex problems lately.”

“Lately?” Blake asked.

“Well, always, I guess. Just seems worse now. Like these guys don’t understand ‘no’ anymore.”

I tried to go back to work on day four. Thought maybe some normalcy would help. But when I walked into the office, my coworkers were looking at me strange. Janet, my boss, called me into her office.

“We had a visitor yesterday.”

My stomach sank.

“Said he was the father of your girlfriend’s baby. That you’d kidnapped her. He seemed very concerned.”

“Janet, I can explain—”

She held up her hand. “I don’t need details, but whatever’s going on in your personal life can’t come to work. He made quite a scene. Security had to escort him out.”

“I’m sorry. He’s dangerous. My girlfriend’s ex.”

“Do you need some time off to sort this out?”

I wanted to say no, that I needed the distraction of work, but I could see it in her eyes. She wanted me gone until this was over.

“Yeah. Maybe a few days.”

That evening, Becky called me crying. Someone claiming to be her husband had called all her doctors and canceled her appointments.

“I’m eight months pregnant,” she sobbed. “I need these appointments. The baby could come anytime.”

Blake spent hours on the phone finding new doctors, explaining the situation. Most were sympathetic, but scared. One receptionist admitted they’d had problems with violent exes before.

“We can see her, but she’ll need to use a different name for safety,” the receptionist said.

Day five, I was at my usual coffee shop, trying to feel normal for just an hour when Richard sat down across from me. He was smiling like we were friends.

“Ryan,” he said, sliding into the booth. “Good to finally talk.”

My hand tightened on my coffee cup, but I kept my voice steady. “You need to leave.”

“Public place. Free country.” He pulled out his phone, started sliding through photos. “You know, I researched you. Berkeley graduate. Good job at Morrison Tech. Clean record.”

The photos were of me at work, at the gym, getting my mail yesterday morning.

“Why throw it all away for some girl you don’t even know?” He kept sliding. “This is you at your parents’ house last Christmas. Nice place. Suburbs. White fence.”

The threat was clear. He knew about my family.

“You’re documenting your own stalking,” I said, trying to sound calmer than I felt. “Thanks for the evidence.”

His smile dropped. “Evidence. You think the cops care? You think anybody cares about some nobody playing hero?” He leaned forward. “I did four tours in Afghanistan. You know what I learned there? The system doesn’t work. Rules don’t matter. What matters is who’s willing to go furthest.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s information. Walk away now, Ryan. This isn’t your fight. She’s not your girl. That’s not your baby. You’re just some random guy who got pulled into something he doesn’t understand.”

“I understand enough.”

He laughed. “No, you don’t. Becky and I—we have history. Four years. You don’t just walk away from that. She’s confused right now. Hormonal from the pregnancy. She’ll come back. They always do.”

“The DNA test says—”

“Tests can be wrong. Labs can be bought. You really think that baby isn’t mine?”

I stood up. “We’re done here.”

“Sit down.” His voice was different now. Harder. “I’m not finished.”

“Yes, you are.”

I walked out, but I could feel him watching me leave. My hands were shaking as I got to my car. I sat there for a minute trying to calm down, then called my lawyer.

“He just made contact,” I told her. “Made threats about my family.”

“Did you record it?”

“No.”

“Then start recording everything. Every interaction. But be careful. He’s smart. He’s done this before.”

“Before?”

“I pulled some records. Another ex‑girlfriend two years ago. She filed multiple reports, then suddenly dropped everything and moved to Oregon.”

“What happened?”

“Officially, she decided not to pursue charges. Unofficially, she was terrified.”

Three days later, I went with Becky to her new doctor. The waiting room was full of happy pregnant couples, and Becky grabbed my hand when a tall man walked in.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. “It’s not him.” But I understood her fear. Every door opening could be Richard. Every footstep behind us.

The doctor took her blood pressure three times because it was so high. “You need to find ways to relax,” he said. “This stress isn’t good for you or the baby.”

Becky almost laughed. “Relax. Right.”

“Is everything okay at home?”

We looked at each other. How do you explain this to someone?

“It’s complicated,” Becky finally said.

That evening—day eight—a process server knocked on Blake’s door. Legal papers. Richard was suing for custody, claiming Becky was an unfit mother. Blake read through the papers, her face getting redder with each page.

“He’s saying she’s mentally unstable, that she’s denying him access to his child, that she’s living with a stranger who’s violent.”

“Violent?” I asked. “I’ve never—”

“He’s twisting everything. Says you assaulted him at the baby shower.” Blake threw the papers across the room. “He’s using the system against us. Making us fight in court while he stalks us.”

Day nine, I went back to my apartment to pack more things. Mr. Chen stopped me in the hallway.

“That man came by yesterday,” he said quietly. “The one with the neck tattoos.”

“What did he want?”

“Asked about you. Said he was your girlfriend’s brother. Worried about her. I didn’t tell him anything, but Ryan… be careful.”

Day eleven was when everything escalated. Lauren called me panicking. Richard had shown up at her work.

“He made a scene in the lobby,” she said, “yelling about how I was hiding his pregnant girlfriend. Security threw him out, but my boss is furious.”

An hour later, Samantha texted. He’d been to her gym, too, telling people she was part of a conspiracy to keep him from his child.

“He’s punishing everyone from the baby shower,” Becky said when she heard. “Everyone who helped me.”

That night, we were all at Blake’s house—me, Becky, Blake, Lauren, and Samantha. We were trying to eat dinner, to pretend things were normal, when we heard the crash. Glass exploded into the living room. Then another crash. Another. Bricks were flying through the windows.

“Get down!” I yelled, pulling Becky to the floor.

More crashes—the front windows, the kitchen. Glass everywhere. Becky was covering her belly, crying. Blake was on the phone with 911. Then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped. We heard a truck engine roar and tires squeal away.

“Is everyone okay?” I asked, helping Becky up. She had a small cut on her hand from the glass, but nothing serious. We were all shaking. The living room was destroyed—glass everywhere, bricks on the floor.

The neighbor’s security camera had caught everything—Richard’s truck clear as day, him throwing the bricks, driving away.

“Finally,” Blake said when the police arrived. “Finally, we have real evidence.”

Detective Douly showed up personally. “We’ll arrest him in the morning,” he said, looking at the damage. “This is felony vandalism, assault with a deadly weapon. He crossed the line.”

But we all knew Richard would make bail. We all knew this wasn’t over.

That night, none of us really slept. Blake swept glass until three in the morning, even though we told her to stop. Becky stayed in the guest room with towels stuffed under the door. Said the glass smell made her sick. I sat on the couch listening to every car that passed, wondering if Richard would come back to finish what he started.

Douly called at ten the next morning. “We got him at his workplace. Made quite a scene.”

Later, we found out from someone who worked there that Richard had made sure everyone saw him being handcuffed, kept yelling about false accusations and corrupt cops. His bail was set at $5,000. His mother paid it, and he was out by one in the afternoon. Three hours. That’s all the peace we got.

By four, his truck drove past Blake’s house, slow, windows down, music blasting. The restraining order said he couldn’t come within 500 feet, but the street was exactly 501 from the front door. Richard had measured.

A week crawled by with Richard testing every boundary. He’d park just outside the restraining‑order distance, show up at places right after we left. Always legal. Always calculated.

Day nineteen, we had to face him in court for the custody hearing. Becky threw up twice that morning from nerves. Her belly was huge now. She could barely fit behind the defendant’s table. Richard showed up in a suit and tie, hair cut short, looking like a concerned father. His lawyer was an older woman who specialized in fathers’‑rights cases. She painted a picture that made me sick.

“My client has been systematically denied access to his child,” she said. “Ms. Martinez has enlisted a stranger—a man she barely knows—to play father, to keep my client away from his baby.”

The judge, a tired‑looking man in his 60s, looked at me. “How long have you known Ms. Martinez?”

“We knew each other in college, your honor. We reconnected recently.”

“Recently, meaning two weeks ago,” Richard’s lawyer jumped on it. “This man has known my client’s pregnant ex‑girlfriend for two weeks and is already living with her.”

“I’m not living with—”

“He’s been staying at her mother’s house. Playing house. Confusing my client’s unborn child.”

The judge ordered a paternity test after birth and supervised visitation if Richard was the father.

Becky ran to the bathroom afterward, and I heard her throwing up again. Blake rubbed her back while she cried.

“He’s going to get access to my baby,” she kept saying. “After everything, they’re going to give him access.”

Two days later, Detective Douly suggested I should stay somewhere else. “Your presence escalates things,” he said. “Richard sees you as the obstacle. If you’re not there, maybe he backs off.”

So I moved to a cheap hotel off Highway 9. Forty dollars a night. Smelled like cigarettes, but it was away from Blake’s house. Becky texted me constantly. Every sound made her jump. Every car that passed could be him.

Day twenty‑two, Richard started his online campaign. Facebook posts about being kept from his child. Photos from when he and Becky were together—her smiling at some beach.

“This was us before she lost her mind,” he wrote. “Now she won’t even let me feel my baby kick.”

Strangers commented horrible things about Becky, called her selfish, cruel, said she was using the baby as a weapon. Lauren and Samantha reported every post, but Facebook said it didn’t violate community standards.

Day twenty‑five, three in the morning. My phone rang. Blake’s voice was tight with panic. “She’s in labor. We’re heading to Memorial Hospital.”

I threw on clothes and drove probably twice the speed limit. Found them in the maternity ward—Becky clutching Blake’s hand through contractions. She looked so young and scared.

“You came?” she whispered between contractions.

“Of course I came.”

An hour later, Richard showed up. We could hear him in the hallway demanding to be in the delivery room.

“That’s my child being born. I have rights.”

Security kept him in the waiting room, but his voice carried. Becky’s blood pressure spiked so high the nurses got worried. They moved us to a room farther from the waiting area, but we could still hear him sometimes, yelling about fathers’ rights and discrimination.

Cassandra was born at 9:23 a.m. while Richard livestreamed from the waiting room.

“They’re keeping me from my daughter’s birth,” he told his phone. “This is what fathers deal with in America.”

When security tried to stop him from entering the maternity ward, he shoved past them, got all the way to the nursery window before three guards pulled him out. Becky held Cassandra tight, tears streaming down her face—not from joy, but from fear.

The next day, Richard filed emergency custody papers. His lawyer argued that denying a father access to his newborn was abuse. The judge, different from the last one, ordered a paternity test immediately. They took Cassandra’s blood while she was barely thirty hours old. Becky sobbed as they pricked her tiny heel. The results would take a week.

We left the hospital on day twenty‑eight with Richard sitting in his truck in the parking lot. Perfectly legal. It was a public lot. He waved as we drove past—that same calm smile from the coffee shop.

Blake’s house felt different with a baby there. Cassandra’s cries at night. The smell of formula. Tiny clothes everywhere. I came by every day to help—bringing groceries, holding Cassandra while Becky showered, whatever they needed.

Day thirty‑five, the first paternity test came back. Richard wasn’t the father. We thought it was over. We were so naive. His lawyer filed a motion that same day claiming the test was tampered with, said the chain of custody was broken, demanded an independent test at a lab of Richard’s choosing. The judge, exhausted by the case, agreed.

“How is this legal?” Becky asked her lawyer.

“He has a right to challenge the results. The court tends to err on the side of potential fathers, even when they’re dangerous—especially then. They don’t want to be accused of bias.”

Richard knew exactly how to work the system. He’d drive by Blake’s house six times a day, just under what counted as stalking. He’d show up at the grocery store right after Becky left. Always coincidental. Always legal.

Day thirty‑eight, he showed up at my work with two large men. They weren’t quite blocking the exits, but close enough.

“Just want to talk,” Richard said, hands up like he was being reasonable.

My coworkers were watching through the glass conference‑room walls. I texted Becky to call 911 while keeping Richard talking about anything—the weather, sports—whatever would buy time.

“You know she’s using you, right?” Richard said. “Soon as this blows over, she’ll drop you. You’re just a prop.”

His friends moved closer, not touching me, but close enough that I could smell the cigarettes on their clothes.

The police arrived just as one of them put his hand on my shoulder. They all left without charges. Just another “misunderstanding.” My boss called me into her office afterward.

“This has to stop,” she said. “I’m sorry about your situation, but we can’t have this at work. Take a leave of absence or find another job.”

Day thirty‑nine, the second paternity test also proved Richard wasn’t Cassandra’s father. His lawyer tried to argue chain of custody again, but the judge had enough.

“Mr. Thompson, you’ve had two independent tests. Both confirm you’re not the biological father. Any further motions on this matter will result in contempt charges.”

Richard stood up so fast his chair fell over. His lawyer grabbed his arm, whispered something. He stormed out, slamming the courtroom door so hard that a bailiff followed him.

That night, Blake’s house was spray‑painted with horrible words about Becky. The security cameras had mysteriously stopped working an hour before. Cassandra cried all night, picking up on everyone’s stress.

“Maybe I should just let him see her,” Becky said the next morning, exhausted and defeated. “Maybe if I give him something, he’ll stop.”

“You can’t negotiate with someone like him,” I told her. “It’ll never be enough.”

Detective Douly came by on day forty. “Richard’s escalating. Men like him—when they’re cornered, they do something extreme. You should consider leaving town.”

“I can’t afford to leave,” Becky said. “I just had a baby. I have no money, no job.”

“Then hotels. Move around. Don’t stay in one place.”

Richard’s mother called that evening, crying. Blake put her on speaker.

“He’s drinking,” she sobbed. “Says if he can’t have his family, no one can. I’m scared what he’ll do.”

We packed that night. Found a hotel twenty miles away that took cash. No questions asked.

Day forty‑three, Lauren called with bad news. Richard got the baby‑shower guest list from the venue—told them he was planning a surprise for Becky. Now everyone from that day was getting calls. Strange cars on their streets. Samantha’s gym bag was stolen from her car. The woman who held the golf club found her tires slashed.

“He’s punishing everyone who helped me,” Becky said. “This is my fault.”

Day fifty, two in the morning. The hotel fire alarm went off. Everyone stumbled into the parking lot in pajamas and confusion. In the chaos of crying kids and barking dogs, Richard appeared next to Becky.

“Cute baby,” he said, touching Cassandra’s head. Then he was gone—disappeared into the crowd.

Hotel security said they had no record of him. No cameras caught him, but we knew he’d been there. He was showing us he could reach us anywhere.

That morning, I made a decision. I called Richard directly.

“Finally ready to talk man‑to‑man,” he answered on the first ring.

“Meet me at Riverside Park. Two o’clock. Just you and me.”

“Growing some balls, hero? Just come alone.”

I didn’t tell Becky. She would’ve tried to stop me, but something had to change. We couldn’t live like this forever.

At two, I waited at a picnic table in the middle of the park—public place, lots of people around. Richard showed up with his two friends despite promising to come alone.

“Insurance,” he said, sitting across from me. “Now, here’s the deal. You disappear. Stop playing daddy. I’ll leave Becky alone until she realizes she needs me. Women always come back when they have babies. They need the help.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then things get worse. Your parents in Modesto. Nice house. Your sister teaches third grade, right? Cute kids in her class.”

I pulled out my phone, showing him it was recording. “You just threatened my family on tape.”

His friends grabbed for it, but I backed away—other park visitors starting to notice the commotion.

“You think you’re smart?” Richard’s face was red now. “That recording means nothing. I know judges, lawyers. I know how to work the system.”

“Maybe. But it’s enough for felony stalking charges when added to everything else.”

That evening, I gave the recording to Detective Douly. He listened to it twice, taking notes.

“Combined with everything else, this might be enough for felony stalking charges. We’ll arrest him tomorrow morning.”