Chapter 9
Two weeks later, we were finally starting to relax.
The DA had charged Diane with perjury and attempted fraud.
She was out on bail, but under a restraining order, forbidden from coming within a mile of us, the kids, or the house.
We’d taken down the police patrols.
We’d stopped checking the locks every five minutes.
We’d even started planning Evan’s next birthday party, talking about inviting my mom and some of the kids’ friends, no drama, no fighting, just fun.
I should’ve known better.
It was two a.m.
I was in the kitchen, getting a glass of water, when I heard the sound of glass breaking in the back of the house.
My blood ran cold.
I grabbed the baseball bat Michael kept by the back door, my hands shaking, and walked slowly down the hallway toward the master bedroom.
The door was open.
The safe we kept in the closet was lying on the floor, pried open.
All our important papers were scattered everywhere.
And Diane was kneeling on the floor, going through them, a flashlight in her hand.
She looked up when she saw me.
Her face was covered by a ski mask, but I’d know those cold, hateful eyes anywhere.
She dropped the papers, standing up, pulling a knife out of her pocket.
“Give me the recordings,” she said, her voice muffled by the mask. “And the codicil. Now. Or I’ll gut you like a fish.”
I gripped the bat tighter.
“You’re violating your restraining order,” I said, my voice shaking. “The cops are already on their way.”
Diane laughed.
“Bullshit. You’re alone. Michael is asleep. The kids are asleep. No one is coming. Give me the papers, or I’ll kill you in your sleep. Then I’ll kill the brats. Then I’ll kill Michael. And I’ll tell everyone you went crazy and killed them first. Who do you think they’ll believe? The grieving widow? Or the crazy wife who hated her mother-in-law?”
She stepped toward me, the knife glinting in the moonlight.
I raised the bat.
“Take one more step and I’ll bash your head in,” I said.
We stood there for a long, tense second, staring at each other.
Then the bedroom light turned on.
Michael stood in the doorway, holding his gun, his hands steady.
“Drop the knife, Mom,” he said, his voice cold. “Now.”
Diane froze.
She slowly pulled off the ski mask, her face twisted with rage and desperation.
“Michael, baby,” she said, her voice suddenly sweet, fake. “It’s not what it looks like. Someone broke in! I was trying to stop them! I was protecting you!”
“Shut up,” Michael said. “I saw you pry open the safe. I heard everything you said to Clara. Drop the knife. Or I swear to God, I will shoot you.”
Diane stared at him for a long second.
Then she dropped the knife, clattering to the floor.
She raised her hands, tears running down her face.
“I had to,” she sobbed. “You took everything from me! The house, the money, my reputation! I have nothing! I’m going to jail! I couldn’t let you win!”
The cops showed up five minutes later, dragging her away in handcuffs.
She screamed at Michael the whole time, calling him a traitor, a disappointment, saying she wished she’d never had him.
Michael didn’t flinch.
He just stood there, holding me tight, watching them take her away.
The next few days were a blur.
Cops, interviews, more court dates.
Diane’s bail was revoked.
She was locked up in the county jail, awaiting trial on burglary, assault, violating a restraining order, perjury, and fraud.
She was facing twenty years in prison.
Michael didn’t visit her.
He didn’t take her calls.
He didn’t even read the letters she sent him from jail.
He just folded them up and put them in a box in the attic, unopened.
One night, about a month after the break-in, we were sitting on the couch, watching a movie, the kids asleep upstairs.
Michael turned to me, his face serious.
“I want to sell the house,” he said.
I stared at him, shocked.
“What? Why? We won. It’s ours. Free and clear.”
“I know,” he said. “But too much happened here. The dinner, the fights, Diane breaking in. Every time I walk into the dining room, I see her throwing water in your mom’s face. Every time I walk into the bedroom, I see her with that knife. I don’t want the kids to grow up here, with all these bad memories. I want a fresh start. Somewhere new. Somewhere Diane can never find us.”
I thought about it.
He was right.
Too much had happened in this house.
Too much pain.
Too much drama.
“Okay,” I said, squeezing his hand. “Let’s do it. Let’s sell. Let’s move somewhere warm. Maybe Florida. Near the beach. The kids would love that.”
Michael smiled, a real, genuine smile, the first one I’d seen in months.
“Florida sounds perfect,” he said.
We put the house on the market the next week.
It sold in three days, for more than we were asking.
We bought a small, beautiful house on the beach in Tampa, with a big backyard and a pool, close to good schools.
My mom moved down with us, buying a small condo ten minutes away, so she could see the kids every day.
For the first time in a year, we were happy.
No drama.
No fighting.
No Diane.
We spent our days at the beach, our nights grilling in the backyard, watching the kids play in the pool.
Michael got a new job, making more money than he ever had, working from home half the week, so he could spend more time with the kids.
I started a small bakery, selling my mom’s chocolate cake and other treats to local cafes.
Everything was perfect.
Until the day Michael got the call.
It was Diane’s lawyer.
Diane had taken a plea deal.
Five years in prison, with time off for good behavior.
She’d be out in three.
And she’d told her lawyer that when she got out, she was moving to Florida.
May you like
To be close to her son.
And her grandkids.
