“Yes.”

A pause.

“They’re asking if you’re inside. They said they’ll walk in through the beach access.”

I felt my chest tighten. “The beach access is gated too, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am. But people get creative.”

“Call the police. Trespass warning. I’m serious.”

“Copy that,” he said. “You’re handling this better than most.”

He couldn’t see my hands trembling.

Ethan stood beside me, solid and steady. “Want me to bring Milo inside?” he asked quietly.

I watched her testing the hammock, swinging gently. For once, she wasn’t anticipating exclusion.

“No,” I said. “This is her home.”

Five minutes later, a patrol car appeared on the security feed behind my parents’ SUV.

The officer stepped out calmly, scanning the lineup of vehicles like a general assessing a battalion. Paige stormed forward, arms flailing, as if she’d rehearsed indignation for years. My mother clutched her purse like a lifeline, my father’s stance rigid, arms crossed so tight I worried he’d snap his own shoulders.

Kids wandered between cars, confused and restless, pressing faces against windows, unsure why the adults were so upset.

My phone buzzed.

Mark: Bella, what the hell? The kids are upset. Just open it and we’ll talk.

I didn’t respond.

“They’ll frame this as a tantrum,” Ethan murmured. “Don’t fall for it.”

On screen, the officer raised a hand, cutting Paige off mid-sentence. She froze, indignation written across her face, then shifted to disbelief. My father jabbed a finger, trying to assert control. The officer didn’t flinch. He said something that made my father’s shoulders slump slightly.

Then he pulled out a notepad, pen poised, ready to document.

And in that moment, I realized: everything was finally under my control.

Milo swung lightly on the hammock, the sunlight glinting off her hair, unconcerned with the chaos at the gate. For the first time, she felt safe here.

And I did too.