A neighbor texted me a screenshot: Brandon had put something on social media, tagged with my town name and a dramatic caption about “worrying for an elderly parent living alone on the coast” and “hoping she’s safe.” He didn’t mention the protective order. He didn’t mention the threats. He didn’t mention the locksmith.
He just framed himself as the worried son.
The comments were full of people who didn’t know anything cheering him on.
You’re such a good son.Go check on her.
Family first.
My jaw tightened so hard it hurt.
This was what Brandon was good at: public performance. He didn’t need to win in court if he could win the narrative. He didn’t need access to my house if he could access pity.
I didn’t respond online. I didn’t argue in the comments. I didn’t feed the machine.
Instead I called Mike Santos.
“Mike,” I said, “I need documentation. Screenshots, timestamps, everything. If Brandon uses this storm to violate the order or harass me again, I want a clean record.”
Mike didn’t sound surprised. “Already on it,” he said. “And Eleanor? He’s not just posting. He’s messaging people.”
My stomach dropped. “Who?”