We went backward to move forward—keys instead of keypads, unplugged routers, neighbors who knew our names, not our Wi‑Fi. I filed reports, printed screenshots, sat under fluorescent lights while officers scrolled through the evidence of our captivity: logs, alerts, access histories that read like a confession written in timestamps. He had never needed to touch us to trap us; his fingerprints were in the code. When the restraining order came, it felt flimsy compared to the fortress he’d built around our lives, but it was a start—a human line drawn where the digital ones had failed.

The house is quieter now. The new locks scrape instead of beep, and Lily sleeps with a flashlight, not a motion‑activated nightlight. I still flinch at notification chimes and hesitate before updating any device that promises to “learn my habits.” The scars remain in every firmware update, every sleek ad for frictionless living. But so does the lesson: comfort without caution is an open door, and we will never again let someone else hold the master key to our lives. Our safety is slower now, heavier, sometimes inconvenient—but it is ours, and no one can toggle it off from a screen.