Linda started visiting casinos.
“Just for fun” became daily online poker. Robert started making suggestions.
Maybe we could borrow from Ethan’s fund. Family emergency.
I refused.
“That money is for Ethan’s future,” I told them.
“Not negotiable.”
Three months ago, I stopped answering their calls as often. They complained I was isolating myself.
I thought they’d let it go.
They didn’t.
I checked the shipping label on the box. Date shipped three weeks ago.
Not today.
Today was just when Ethan noticed the light.
They’d been watching us for three weeks.
My divorce from Sarah happened eighteen months ago.
She’s twenty‑nine, a retail manager, and has Ethan thirty percent of the time according to the custody agreement.
Reality is more like twenty percent because she forgets weekends. She’s not a bad mother, just checked out.
She’s not my problem.
My parents are.
I ran through options like I was debugging a system.
Option A: confront them now. Result: they deny everything, destroy evidence, lawyer up.
Option B: call police immediately.
Result: investigation takes time, they get warned.
Option C: smash the device, cut contact. Result: no legal protection, they try again.
Option D: play dumb. Gather more evidence.
Build an ironclad case, then strike.
I chose option D.
I’m a software engineer. I make $95,000 a year. I know how surveillance systems work—how to document evidence, how to preserve chain of custody—and I don’t make emotional decisions.
Strategy formed like a project plan.
Don’t tell them I found anything.
Search for other devices. File a police report Monday. Call my lawyer.
Let them make the next move.
Bury them with evidence.
They wanted to play games with my son.
I’d show them what happens when you underestimate an engineer.
That evening, I searched the house.
I put Ethan to bed first. I read him two stories, tucked him in, told him I loved him.
Then I checked his bedroom. Every toy.
Every book. Under the bed. Inside the closet.
Nothing.
His school backpack was by the door.
I unzipped every pocket, felt along the seams.
Nothing yet.
Living room, kitchen, bathroom—smoke detectors, light fixtures, picture frames.
By the time I finished, it was past ten.
Maybe the Laboo was the only one.
Maybe I was being paranoid.
But I didn’t believe they’d risk a single device. They’d want redundancy. Backup systems.
I made a mental note to keep searching.
The next morning, my phone rang.
Dad calling.
I let it ring three times before answering and kept my voice normal.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, Jake.
How are you?”
“Good. Busy weekend.”
“Did Ethan get our package?”
“Yeah,” I said. “He loved it.”
A pause.
“That’s great,” my father said.
“He’s playing with it?”
“Yeah. Carries it everywhere.”
Lie. It was sealed in an evidence bag, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Good.
Good.” His voice went casual, then sharper on the edges. “Listen, maybe we could stop by this week. See Ethan.”
“I’ll check my schedule.”
His tone shifted.
Edge crept in.
“You’ve been saying that for months, Jake.”
“I know. Work’s been crazy.”
“We’re family,” he said. “We shouldn’t need an appointment.”
“I’ll text you.”
He sighed.
“All right. Talk soon.”
Call ended.
Ethan walked in. “Was that Grandpa?”
“Yeah.”
“Can we see them?”
My chest tightened.
“Maybe soon, bud.”
“Okay.” He shrugged and went back to playing.
They were fishing, wondering if I’d found the device.
I didn’t give them anything.
Monday morning, I dropped Ethan at school, drove twenty minutes to the police station, and brought the evidence bag.
I had printed photos, the shipping receipt with my father’s name on it, and I asked for someone in cyber crimes.
Detective Morrison came out—older woman, gray hair, fifteen years on the force. Calm. Professional.
I sat across from her desk and kept it factual.
“My parents sent my eight‑year‑old son a toy three weeks ago,” I said.
“I discovered Saturday it contains a hidden camera and microphone. I have photos. I need to file a report.”
She examined the toy through the plastic.
Her jaw tightened.
“Mr. Barrett,” she said, “you did the right thing by not tampering with it.”
“What happens now?”
“We’ll send this to forensics. They’ll extract any stored footage, check for cloud connections, trace the purchase.”
“How long?”
“Three to five business days.”
“And if there’s footage of my son?”
“Then we have a felony.” She slid a paper toward me.
“Colorado Revised Statutes 18‑9‑304. Wiretapping a minor without parental consent.”
“What should I do?”
“Don’t contact them. Don’t tell them you know.
Let us build the case.”
“They called me yesterday,” I said. “Asked if my son liked the toy.”
Her eyebrow rose. “What did you say?”
“I said he loved it.”
“Good,” she said.
“Keep it that way.”
She gave me a case number, an evidence receipt, her card.
I left with documentation—official record, the first piece of leverage.
From the parking lot, I called Marcus Chen, my divorce attorney. Sharp. Doesn’t waste time.
“Marcus, I need to see you today.”
He heard my tone.
“Eleven. Work.”
“I’ll be there.”
Two hours later, I sat in his office explaining how my parents had spent three weeks spying on my son.
Marcus took notes. When I finished, he looked up.
“They’re going to try for custody,” he said.
I already knew.
The camera wasn’t about watching Ethan.
It was about building a case against me—documenting my parenting, looking for mistakes, gathering ammunition for a court battle I didn’t even know was coming.
But here’s what they didn’t know.
I document everything.
I keep records.
I don’t make emotional decisions.
And for three weeks, they’d been watching my son through a toy I didn’t know existed.
Now I knew.
And I had proof.
And I had time to prepare.
They thought they were hunting.
They were wrong.
They’d just walked into a trap they didn’t know I’d set.
And the only question left was how hard I was going to close it.
Marcus Chen’s office downtown had glass walls and that clean, modern look lawyers used to justify their hourly rates.
He was thirty‑eight, handled my divorce.
Sharp enough that I kept him on retainer after the papers were signed.
I sat across from his desk and laid it out: camera in a toy, three weeks of surveillance, police report filed this morning.
He leaned back in his chair. “Okay. Let’s think like them.
Why spy?”
“To prove I’m unfit.”
“Close. To prove they need to intervene.” He pulled up Colorado statutes on his screen. “CRS 19‑1‑117.
Grandparents can petition for custody if the child is at risk, parents are unfit, and they have an established relationship.”
“They can’t just want custody,” he said. “They need a reason.”
He looked at me. “What’s their reason?”
“Money.”
“Explain.”
I did: the $180,000, the will, my trustee status, my mother’s gambling.
“They can’t touch it while I have custody,” I said.
Marcus nodded.
“There it is. If they get guardianship, they petition the court to control the trust.”
“Can they do that?”
“If a judge believes you’re unfit and they’re better, yes.”
My jaw tightened.
“So the camera was phase one,” Marcus said. “Gathering evidence.
Phase two will be legal action.”
He started typing. “I’ll file an emergency motion for a restraining order.”
“No,” I said.
He stopped. “What?”
“Not yet.
If we file first, they know we know. They’ll lawyer up, destroy other evidence.”
“Jake, this is serious.”
“I know.”
“That’s why we wait,” I said. “Let them file.
Let them commit. Then we bury them.”
He studied me for a long moment. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“All right,” he said finally.
“But I’m monitoring court filings daily. The second they move, you call me.”
He paused. “One more thing.
Check your ex‑wife. If your parents are smart, they’ll recruit her.”
“Sarah?”
“She’s the weak link,” he said. “They’ll offer her something.
More custody. Money. Guilt.
Whatever works.”
My stomach turned. “I’ll talk to her.”
Two days later, I was at work when my phone buzzed.
Mom calling.
I stepped outside to the parking lot.
“Hi, honey,” Linda said. “How are you?”
“Good, Mom.
Busy.”
“I know. I know. You work so hard.” Her voice went syrupy, grandmother‑sweet.
“That’s actually why I’m calling. Your dad and I are worried. You sound stressed.”
“Just work stuff.”
“Jake, we’re family.
You can talk to us. Are you okay? Is Ethan okay?”
“Ethan’s fine.
We’re fine.”
“Well…” Her pause was too deliberate. “Sarah mentioned you’ve seemed different lately.”
My blood went cold.
“You talked to Sarah?”
“Just checking in. We’re all worried about you.”
“When did you talk to her?”
Another pause.
“Last week,” she said.
“She called us, actually.”
Lie. I could hear it in the hesitation.
“She’s concerned, Jake. She said you’ve been short‑tempered, withdrawn.
Not yourself.”
My mind raced. Did Sarah call them? Or did they call her and make it sound like she initiated?
“I’m fine.”
“Honey, maybe you need help.
There’s no shame in that.” Her voice softened like she was offering salvation. “Maybe Ethan could stay with us for a bit, just to give you a break.”
There it was.
“Ethan doesn’t need to stay with you.”
Her tone hardened, warmth gone.
“Jake, we’re trying to help.”
“I don’t need help.”
“We’ll see,” she said.
And she hung up.
I stood in that parking lot with my heart pounding.
I texted Marcus: They contacted my ex. They just asked to take Ethan “for a break.”
His reply came fast.
Checking court system now.
An hour later, my phone rang.
“Jake,” Marcus said, “they filed this morning.
Emergency petition for grandparent custody.”
I closed my eyes.
“Hearing is Friday, 9:00 a.m. Judge Margaret Fielding.”
“What are they claiming?”
“That you’re emotionally unstable, financially irresponsible, isolating Ethan from family, and unable to provide adequate care.”
“That’s insane.”
“They have an affidavit from Sarah.”
My hands shook.
“When did she sign it?”
“Dated two weeks ago.”
“She texted me yesterday asking how I was. If she’s so concerned, why is she checking on me?”
“Because she probably didn’t read what she signed,” Marcus said.
“Your parents fed her a story. ‘Jake’s struggling. We want to help.
Can you sign this?’ She signs thinking it’s for therapy. They use it for custody.”
“Can we fight this?”
“Yes,” he said, “but we need evidence. School records, medical records, everything showing you’re a good parent.”
“I have three years of documentation.”
“Good.
Bring it. Friday, 8:00 a.m., my office. We prep.”
He paused.
“And Jake—the camera evidence.
That’s our nuke. We save it for the hearing.”
That evening, I picked up Ethan from school.
He talked the whole drive home—math test, recess, a friend’s birthday party coming up. I barely heard him.
We got home.
He dropped his backpack by the door and ran to play.
I stared at that backpack.
Marcus had said, Check for more devices.
I’d searched it Saturday and found nothing, but that was before I knew what I was looking for.
I opened it again.
Main pocket: books and folders. Front pocket: pencils and eraser.
Then the hidden side pocket, the small pouch usually for a water bottle.
I felt around.
My fingers touched something hard.
A flat GPS tracker, Velcroed to the inside lining.
I pulled it out.
Small black device. Credit‑card size.
Track Pro X.
$45 on eBay.
Green LED blinking every ten seconds.
I checked the activation date.
Three weeks ago.
Same day as the Laboo.
They weren’t just watching.
They were tracking every trip to school, every friend’s house, every grocery store run.
Building a map of Ethan’s routine.
Looking for what?
Evidence. Proof I took him to unsafe places. Proof of neglect.
I texted Marcus: Found second device.
GPS tracker in Ethan’s backpack. Same timeline.
His reply: Don’t remove it. Photograph it in place.
Then bag it.
I did.
I photographed it exactly where I found it, then sealed it in an evidence bag.
I placed both bags in my locked filing cabinet.
Two counts of illegal surveillance.
The next morning, I called Sarah before she left for work.
“Hello?” Her voice was groggy.
“Why did you sign an affidavit saying I’m unfit?”
“What?”
“My parents filed for custody. You signed a statement saying I’m unstable.”
She woke up fast. “I—Jake, I didn’t.”
“It’s dated two weeks ago.
Your signature.”
“They told me it was for therapy,” she said, words spilling out. “They said you were struggling and needed support and the form was to get you counseling through their insurance.”
“It wasn’t.”
Her voice broke. “Oh my God.”
“Did you even read it?”
“I skimmed it.
They were standing right there. Linda was crying, saying you wouldn’t answer their calls. She was so worried.
They played me.”
“Jake, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You need to withdraw it.”
“How?”
“Call my lawyer. Marcus Chen.
He’ll file an amendment. You say you were misled.”
“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll do it today.”
“And Sarah,” I said, “don’t talk to my parents again.”
“I won’t,” she said quickly.
“I swear.”
I hung up.
I didn’t feel better.
Damage was done.
Even if Sarah recanted, the judge would see she signed something.
That afternoon, Detective Morrison called.
“Mr. Barrett. Forensics finished.”
My heart pounded.
