A few weeks ago, my ex-husband showed up with a gift for our son, Ethan—a plush rocking horse.
It was adorable, well-crafted, and Ethan fell in love with it instantly. I didn’t think twice about it. Malek, my ex, often brought gifts when he visited—probably trying to soothe the guilt left behind by our chaotic divorce. I let it slide.
At first, everything seemed normal. Ethan would ride it for hours, laughing and squealing with joy.
But then… I started hearing this strange clicking noise. I assumed it was just part of the toy—maybe a faulty spring or cheap component?
But the sound grew louder. More deliberate. Almost rhythmic.
Late one night, after Ethan had gone to bed, I decided to check. I flipped the horse over and gently rocked it.
The clicking persisted.
My heart started racing.
I reached underneath and felt something… off. It wasn’t part of the toy’s structure. And the moment my fingers touched it, a sickening realization hit me.
A GPS tracker.
Small. Black. Taped under the saddle and hidden in the frame.
My hands were trembling as I pulled it free.
Why? Why would Malek put a tracker in a toy? What was he planning?
My mind jumped to the worst possibilities. Was he plotting to take Ethan? Preparing for something sinister?
He had been making more comments lately about custody—saying things like, “He’s always sad to leave,” or “Joint custody would give him more balance.” I brushed it off as him being dramatic.
But this? This wasn’t drama. This was calculated.
I called my lawyer first thing in the morning.
Didn’t even wait for her to finish her coffee.
“Jessica,” I said, “He planted a tracker in Ethan’s toy.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m showing you.” I sent her a photo.
Everything moved fast. She filed for an emergency hearing, and the judge immediately issued a temporary restraining order. Malek went ballistic—called me over 20 times, left voicemails calling me paranoid and manipulative.
But here’s the kicker: when the court asked him to explain the tracker… he didn’t even deny it.
He said he “wanted to make sure Ethan wasn’t being taken to unsafe neighborhoods” or left with “strangers.”
As if I’d ever been anything less than a devoted mother.
While I was raising our son alone, Malek was off soul-searching in Peru. I stayed up through teething, tantrums, and fevers while he played the wanderer.
I shouldn’t have been surprised.
Malek always had control issues. Not the obvious, loud kind—but quiet, creeping control. Rerouting my GPS “to save time.” Storing my passwords “in case I forgot.” In the fog of early motherhood and legal paperwork, I didn’t always catch it—or fight it.
Two weeks later, we went to court.
Malek arrived clean-shaven, full of crocodile tears, claiming I was “unstable” since the divorce.
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