At 3:24 a.m., my son started vomiting, and my phone flashed: Invalid passcode attempt at Front Door. Hours earlier, I had fired Marisol Vance—the live-in nanny who sobbed into my baby’s hair, called him “my little lamb,” and whispered that I didn’t know what I was doing. I deleted her code. I watched the deadbolt click. But now she stood on my porch, calm as a nurse on rounds, beside a white van with no plates, pressing the keypad again and again. On camera, she smiled straight into the lens. My husband was asleep in another city, yet a spare fob hummed in his coat pocket. My baby screamed in my arms. The woman who raised him for six months had come back—and I had one locked bedroom, a failing door, and no idea whether she was there to help him or take him.