Two weeks later, at five in the morning, the world ended with a splintering crash. Pounding on our front door rattled the walls. Before Mark could even get his bearings, two officers with weapons drawn were in our bedroom, screaming commands. They separated us immediately. I watched, screaming, as they dragged my husband out in handcuffs, his face a mask of bewildered terror. Before I could process what was happening, I was being escorted to a squad car, an officer telling me it was “for the baby’s protection.”