The toolbox man looked like a locksmith.
My pulse didn’t spike. It cooled.
I walked to the window, then to the front door, and opened it without stepping outside.
Brandon looked up, startled to see me. “Mom,” he said, too bright. “Hey. We just need to—”
“Step off my property,” I said.
The locksmith shifted uncomfortably. “Ma’am,” he said, “your son said—”
“My son is under a protective order,” I said calmly. “He has no right to be here. If you touch my locks, you’ll be aiding trespass.”
Brandon’s jaw tightened. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “I’m family.”
“No,” I replied, voice steady. “You’re a legal risk with a history of false reports.”
His face flashed with anger. “You can’t keep me out forever.”
“I can,” I said. “That’s what the court order is for.”
Brandon took a half-step forward, like old habits still believed intimidation worked.
I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t argue.
I lifted my phone and tapped one button.
The sheriff’s office answered immediately, because David and Sarah had helped me set up a direct line for property violations.
“This is Eleanor Sterling,” I said. “I have an active protective order. My son is on my property with a locksmith attempting access.”