When the Mask Slipped

The first time I stepped into family court for my own family was the day I filed a PFA—Protection from Abuse—against X. It followed one of the scariest nights of my life. But it was also the night I realized just how far I’d come in standing up to him.

It was a Sunday night in July 2023. Like every weekend since I filed for divorce a month earlier, the kids and I were at my mom’s house—my refuge that summer. Wide open space for the kids to run, a tire swing for endless laughter, and a kitchen table where I could cry, vent, and be surrounded by protection, wisdom, and Chardonnay (with frozen berries, because my mom’s classy like that).

X texted, asking if any of the kids wanted to spend the night with him. He was living with his mom. We didn’t have a custody agreement yet, and he’d never taken the baby overnight—so I knew she wasn’t included in his invitation.

Still stuck in my role as the ever-accommodating ex-wife and my desire to be a people pleaser, I asked the kids.

J said no, as always. E didn’t want to go but asked me to tell him she had plans—my little people-pleaser clone. CCC wasn’t interested at all. But ABC, only five years old and still shielded from how toxic things really were, said yes.

I told X he could pick her up at my house. When we got home, ABC packed a bag. I tucked in the baby, and ABC and I sat on the front porch to wait.

The moment he pulled into the driveway, I felt it—something was off. He wasn’t a drinker, but he seemed… altered. Slurred words. Drooping eyes. A cocky smile that didn’t match the moment, but matched his ever-present narcissistic personality.

When ABC got into his truck, I ran inside to grab a prototype printed custody schedule he’d asked about. I made the mistake of handing it to him.

His eyes went black. If you’ve ever been with a narcissist, you know exactly what I mean.

He crumpled up the paper.“F*** this,” he snapped. “I don’t want the kids on days I have off. I need some of my kid time to be on workdays so my mom can watch them.”

I asked, “Why?”

He replied, “To do adult things.”

I laughed—couldn’t help it. “You have five kids. What does that even mean?”

That’s when he started to close his truck window on my arm.

I was scared. One of my babies was in that truck. ABC had never seen him like this. She had been protected—by me, her siblings, her gender, her age. Until now.

X pulled away from the house, tires screaming, doing at least 60 through the neighborhood. As he turned out of the driveway, I caught a glimpse of ABC’s face—pure terror.

I panicked. Called his mother—the same woman who used to go toe-to-toe with him, who’d expressed concern about his rage many times. I told her what had happened.

She said, with infuriating calm, “Well, he said he was picking up ABC. I don’t see the problem.”

Then he came squealing back.

Of course he did. He never walked away from a fight unless he thought he had won.

I ran out to the truck. He jumped out, opened the back door, and asked ABC, “Do you want to stay with your mom?”

She jumped into my arms, sobbing. I dragged her suitcase and ran back toward the house.

X followed us, in a rage.

Just as we reached the garage door, J—my quiet protector—flung it open, grabbed ABC from me, and pulled her inside.

That moment broke me. My son knew. He had seen this before. He knew it would get ugly. And he jumped in to protect his little sister.

I stood in the garage, my back to the house door, facing X. “Please leave,” I said.

He smiled—smug, amused—and jumped backward to sit on the chest freezer. I see that image in my dreams. It’s burned into my memory.“Make me. It’s technically my house too.”

I pulled out my phone.

He sneered. “Go ahead. Call the cops. We know what happened last time.”

And I did. The last time, the police had sided with him. Fellow Marine. They didn’t want to deal with the messy, traumatized wife.

“Please just leave,” I repeated.

Arms crossed, still perched on the freezer, he said, “You think you’re a good person. You’re not. And another thing—you’re fat.”

He hit both targets: my need to be liked and my insecurities about my body. Classic X.

I pulled my phone out again.He barked, “Don’t you dare record me. That’s illegal.”

And just like that, I shrank back into the scared wife who believed everything he said.

He stayed. He yelled. He ranted. I hoped someone—anyone—would call the police. That my father-in-law, who still lived with me, might intervene. But nothing. It felt like a lifetime. Maybe it was five minutes. I’ll never know.

Eventually, I bolted for the house. He followed me in.

“I just want to say hi to MY children,” he said.

He beat me to the stairs and stood a step above me—making his already 6-foot frame tower over my 5’3”. He leaned over, spat in my face, and then, in the most terrifying shift I’ve ever seen, called out in a singsong voice, “Hey kids! Say hi to your daddy!”

The kids—J, E, and CCC—waved a nervous hello from the top of the stairs, then darted back to my bedroom.

X finally left.

Right then, X’s father emerged from the basement like nothing had happened. “What happened?” he asked casually.

I was too disgusted to speak.

I locked the house down. Gathered the kids in my room. J had already barricaded them inside. I brought in the baby. We locked the bedroom door and huddled together. They knew that tonight was a “sleepover” night.

Then came the second assault.

X started calling. Over and over. Then texting. When I didn’t answer, he started calling the kids—one after another. We were all terrified.

I finally answered.

He apologized. Said he was “just angry.” Told me not to tell my lawyer—it “wouldn’t look good for either of us.” He slurred, gaslit, blamed, manipulated. Business as usual.

But what he didn’t know?

I was done.

I recorded the call using E’s phone. And I coincidentally had a meeting scheduled with my lawyer the next day.

That night, I laid down with all five of my babies. We fit together like a puzzle in my king-size bed. I didn’t sleep, but I held them tight.

I got up and went to work the next day—business as usual.

At the lawyer’s office that afternoon, I told the story. I even laughed a little—because honestly, it felt like just another day in my chaotic life.

But my lawyer didn’t laugh.

“You need to file for a PFA,” she said.

I thought she was insane. That would enrage him. That would be the ultimate betrayal in his mind.

But I did it.

I filed.

And it was the first time in a long time I realized—maybe I really could protect us after all.