The Kids I Babysit Have a Secret Danger Code and They Used It When Their Grandpa Arrived

He started pounding on the door with his fist and yelling that these were his grandchildren and nobody had the right to keep him away from them. He said Natalie had poisoned their minds with lies and he was going to make sure everyone knew the truth.

The kids could hear him from upstairs, and I heard Lily crying louder. My hands were shaking as I actually called 911 this time.

The dispatcher answered and I explained the situation as quickly as I could while the man kept pounding and shouting. She said officers were on the way and to stay inside with the doors locked and not engage with him anymore.

I could hear her typing rapidly and asking for details about the protective order. I didn’t know the details, so I texted Natalie again asking about it.

She responded immediately, saying there was a restraining order and he wasn’t supposed to be within 500 feet of the house or the kids. She was leaving work right now and would be home in 20 minutes.

Those 20 minutes felt like hours. The grandfather stopped pounding and everything went quiet for about 30 seconds.

I checked the camera and saw him walking back to his car, an old blue sedan parked across the street. For a moment I thought he was leaving, but instead he opened the trunk and pulled out a metal baseball bat.

My entire body went cold as I watched him walk back toward the house, swinging it casually. He called out that if I wasn’t going to be reasonable about this, he’d find another way in.

He walked around the side of the house toward the backyard, and I lost sight of him on the camera. I ran upstairs to Owen’s room where both kids were huddled together on the bed.

Owen had his arms around Lily and was whispering that everything would be okay. I told them police were coming and their mom was on her way home, and we just needed to stay quiet and safe up here.

Then I heard glass breaking downstairs. He’d smashed the sliding door in the kitchen.

I pushed the kids into Owen’s closet and told them to stay there no matter what. Then I grabbed Owen’s wooden baseball bat from beside his bed.

My hands were slippery with sweat as I gripped it and positioned myself between the closet and the bedroom door. I could hear heavy footsteps downstairs and the man calling out for Owen and Lily in a sing-song voice that made my skin crawl.

He was saying he’d brought them presents and didn’t they want to see what grandpa bought them. His footsteps started coming up the stairs slowly, one at a time, and each creak of the wood made my heart pound harder.

I could hear Lily crying quietly in the closet and Owen shushing her gently. The footsteps reached the top of the stairs and paused.

I held my breath and tightened my grip on the bat. Then his voice came from right outside the door, saying he knew they were in there and they needed to stop playing games.

The doorknob started to turn and I raised the bat above my head, ready to swing at anyone who came through. The door opened slowly and I saw his face—angry and determined, nothing like the smiling grandfather from the photo.

He saw me standing there with the bat and actually laughed, saying I was just a kid myself and needed to put that down before someone got hurt. He took a step into the room and I swung the bat as hard as I could, not aiming for his head but for his shoulder.

It connected with a solid thunk and he stumbled backward, dropping his own bat with a clatter. He grabbed his shoulder and swore, then lunged at me.

I swung again but missed this time, and he caught the bat, yanking it out of my hands with more strength than I expected. Now we were both in the room and he was between me and the door, holding both bats.

He told me I just made a very big mistake and he wasn’t leaving without his grandchildren. That’s when I heard sirens getting closer and his face changed from angry to panicked.

He looked toward the window and then back at the closet where the kids were hiding. Police sirens were right outside now, and I heard car doors slamming.

The man swore again and threw the bats on the floor, then ran out of the room and down the stairs. I heard him thundering through the house and the back door slamming.

I ran to the closet and opened it, finding both kids clutching each other and shaking. I told them it was safe and the police were here, but Owen wouldn’t let go of Lily.

Police officers were coming through the front door now, calling out to announce themselves, and I yelled down that we were upstairs and safe. Two officers came up with their weapons drawn, checking every room before lowering them.

A female officer knelt down in front of the kids and introduced herself as Officer Williams, asking if they were hurt. Lily shook her head but couldn’t stop crying.

Owen just stared at the floor and held his sister tighter. Officer Williams said they’d caught the man trying to climb the back fence and he was in custody now; she asked if I could tell them exactly what happened.

I walked them through everything from the first knock to him breaking in with the bat. Another officer was documenting the broken sliding door and taking photos of everything.

More police arrived and started setting up a perimeter around the property. Natalie burst through the front door about 10 minutes later, wide-eyed and frantic, pushing past officers until she found us upstairs.

She dropped to her knees and pulled both kids into her arms, sobbing and checking them over for injuries. They weren’t physically hurt, but they were traumatized, and I could see that in the way they clung to their mother and wouldn’t look toward the door.

Natalie looked at me with tears streaming down her face and thanked me over and over for keeping them safe. An ambulance arrived even though nobody was seriously injured, and the paramedics checked everyone out while police continued documenting the scene.

Detective Laura Sullivan showed up about an hour later, a woman in her 40s with sharp eyes who’d apparently been assigned to the family’s case months ago. Detective Sullivan sat down with Natalie in the living room while a victim advocate stayed with the kids upstairs.

I could hear Natalie explaining through tears that her father had been diagnosed with early onset dementia two years ago and his personality had completely changed. He’d become paranoid and aggressive, especially toward her after her divorce.

There had been an incident eight months ago where he’d shoved her so hard she’d broken her wrist, and another time when he’d grabbed Owen roughly enough to leave bruises. The restraining order had been in place for six months, but he’d never violated it before.

Natalie had thought maybe he’d accepted the boundaries, but now she realized he’d just been planning. Detective Sullivan said the violation of the restraining order plus the breaking and entering plus the assault on me meant he’d be going to jail this time, not just getting a warning.

She asked if I’d be willing to give a formal statement and I said yes, even though my hands were still shaking. That night, after the police finally left and Natalie got the kids to bed, she sat me down at the kitchen table and apologized for putting me in danger.

She said she should have been more explicit about the threat level when she hired me. I told her it wasn’t her fault and I was glad I’d been there to protect the kids.

She insisted on paying me triple for that day and said she’d understand if I didn’t want to come back. The truth was I was scared and shaken up, and the idea of being alone in that house again made my stomach hurt.

But I also thought about Owen using the code word at exactly the right moment and Lily’s brave face, even though she was terrified. I told Natalie I’d keep babysitting, but I wanted her to walk me through every security measure in the house and teach me exactly what to do if anything like this happened again.

We sat there until past midnight going over emergency protocols and contact numbers and the locations of every camera and alarm. She showed me the panic button app on her phone that connected directly to police dispatch.

The next morning, I went to the police station to give my formal statement to Detective Sullivan. She recorded everything while I walked through every detail I could remember.

She showed me photos of the man being arrested, his shirt torn and his face red with fury as officers handcuffed him. She explained that he’d be held without bail because he’d violated a protective order and the judge considered him a flight risk.

There would be a hearing next week and I’d need to testify about what happened. The idea of standing in a courtroom and talking about it in front of him made me want to throw up, but Sullivan said my testimony would be crucial for keeping him locked up longer.

She also mentioned that Natalie’s father had a history I didn’t know about before the dementia diagnosis. He’d been arrested twice for assault, once against Natalie’s mother before she passed away and once against a neighbor.

The dementia had apparently removed whatever impulse control he’d maintained before. I started having nightmares after that day.

I’d wake up sweating and seeing his face in the bedroom doorway, or I’d dream that I hadn’t locked the closet and he’d gotten to the kids. My roommate noticed I was jumpy and having trouble sleeping and finally got me to talk to someone at the university counseling center.