I literally begged my husband on my knees to take me to the ER because I was in labor, but he snapped that I was just being dramatic and walked out to celebrate his mother's birthday. Two days later, he smugly showed up at home, expecting to hold his newborn baby. But instead of hearing a baby's cry, he was greeted by military vehicles packing our driveway and loaded guns waiting just for him.

At 9:45 AM, the video feed picked up the sound of a high-performance engine.

Derek’s customized silver Mercedes G-Wagon turned onto our street. Even through the grainy camera feed, I could practically smell the stale alcohol and arrogance radiating from the vehicle.

He was driving slightly over the speed limit, one hand draped lazily over the steering wheel, probably nursing a colossal hangover. On the passenger seat, clearly visible through the windshield, was a cheap, deflated "It's a Boy!" balloon he must have bought at a gas station on the way home, not even bothering to find out his child’s actual gender.

As he approached our driveway, he finally looked up.

The Mercedes slammed on its brakes, the tires shrieking against the asphalt as the heavy SUV skidded to a halt just inches from a heavily armored military blockade.

Derek stumbled out of the driver's side door, clutching his head, his designer suit wrinkled and smelling of cigars.

“What the hell is this?!” Derek shouted, waving his arms at the dozen tactical rifles that were instantly raised and pointed directly at his chest. “Are you guys lost? This is a private community! Get these ugly-ass trucks off my lawn before I call my lawyers!”

The armed guards did not flinch. They did not speak. They stood like statues of death, their laser sights painting small red dots all over Derek’s expensive chest.

Derek’s arrogant bluster began to crack. He looked at his ruined rose bushes. He looked at the transport trucks pulling away with all the furniture.

“Where is my wife?!” he demanded, though his voice was shaking now. “Elena! Elena, get out here and tell these cosplaying freaks to leave!”

The line of tactical officers parted down the middle.

General Marcus Sterling walked slowly out from the shadow of the MRAP, his boots crunching on the gravel. He stopped five feet away from Derek, his presence so overwhelmingly dominant that Derek instinctively took a step backward.

“Hello, Derek,” my father said, his voice cold and flat.

Derek blinked, trying to process the four stars on my father’s shoulders. He had only ever seen my dad in civilian clothes, drinking iced tea on the porch.

“Arthur?” Derek stammered, using my father's first name, which was his first massive mistake. “What… what are you wearing? Why are there soldiers at my house?”

“Correction,” my father said smoothly. “This is Elena’s house. The deed is solely in her name. And as of 6:00 AM this morning, you have been legally evicted and permanently barred from stepping foot on the premises.”

Derek let out a nervous, incredulous laugh. “You’re crazy, old man. Elena just had my son. She needs me. I’m going inside.”

He took one step forward.

Twelve rifles clicked in unison, the sound of safeties being disengaged echoing like a death knell across the quiet neighborhood.