I jumped out of my sleep to the loud sound of glass shattering.
I instantly patted the bed beside me, praying my husband was asleep.
But it was empty.
I knew what was happening. I wasn't new to this. And knowing how rich and powerful I am, I felt the rage of an angry Black mother bubbling inside me.
I looked over at the iPad on my nightstand, which had all the cameras in the mansion on one screen—and instantly saw five masked men crawling through the window on the side of the house.
"Fuck," I whispered, my heart racing for the safety of my kids.
Of course the alarm system wasn't on. The bastard never made it home to turn it on. I quickly picked up my phone and dialed my husband's number.
Voicemail.
I tried again... and again... and again.
Voicemail.
I watched the masked men make their way into the living room, searching for anything valuable and tossing it into a black trash bag. I knew at that moment I didn't have much time before they figured out how to get around the big house and to my kids' bedrooms.
It was either them or my kids.
And my kids always came first.
I would die for them if that's what it took.
I quickly looked over to the wall beside the bathroom. We kept a generator box in our bedroom in case the power ever went out. The good thing about it? I could choose to power it off.
At least that would give me a little time before they pulled out flashlights.
"God, please be with me... please," I pleaded as I ran to the generator box and shut the power down.
I glanced at the iPad. The masked men looked at each other, probably wondering who cut the lights. But it only made them move faster.
I grabbed the keys from my dresser and rushed to my kids' room.
"Rashad. Kyra," I whispered, gently shaking my children.
Rashad was eight. Kyra was only six. I wasn't about to let a group of broke, hungry motherfuckers hurt my children over material things.
Then I looked over at my three-year-old baby, Chris, sleeping peacefully. A tear rolled down my cheek.
I couldn't believe this was happening—to me.
Why did I always have to be the strong one? Why couldn't my husband be here protecting us? Why was I always left to do everything on my own?
The thought of him laid up in another woman's bed while someone was breaking into our home made me angry—but strong.
I built this life on my own. No mom. No dad. No man. No family. Just me.
"Get up now. Get in the closet. Someone's breaking into the house," I said, yanking Rashad to his feet. He jumped up, grabbed Kyra as she rubbed her eyes in confusion.
I picked up Chris and shoved all three of them inside the closet.
"Rashad, don't make a sound until you hear my voice, okay?" I whispered.
"Mommy... I'm scared," he replied.
That crushed me. He never called me "Mommy." He always said "Mom" because he thought he was a big boy. But at that moment, I knew they were truly terrified.
And that made my blood boil.
"These motherfuckers ain't never gonna break into anybody else's house again," I whispered through clenched teeth, running back into my room.
I watched them on the cameras, scrambling through the house, flashlights up, looking for the power box. Each one carried a 9mm, holding it like they were the damn police.
"It's now or never," I told myself.
I grabbed the night vision goggles from my closet and typed in the code to the safe. As the heavy door swung open, I stared at the different guns inside.
I had never killed anyone before—and I never planned to.
But this? This was different.
It was them or my kids.
And my kids always came first.
I grabbed the AR-15, checking that the clip was full. Then I slid the night vision goggles over my face and tapped on the iPad screen, activating the home invasion alarm.
I thought the loud siren would scare them off.
I was wrong.
"Check upstairs! We got seven minutes—hurry up!" I heard one of them yell.
It was now or never.
I dropped to the floor, crawling toward the hallway that overlooked the stairwell. I pointed the AR-15 downward, my hand shaking on the trigger.
First person you see... shoot.
That's what I kept hearing in my head.
"I'm going upstairs! Watch my back!" another voice called out.
Then my heart sank.
Tyshawn.
A kid who worked for me at my car rental business. He cleaned my cars. He made sure every single one of them stayed maintained.
"Tyshawn?" I yelled, shocked.
He looked up, startled, and pointed his gun in the opposite direction, thinking that's where my voice came from.
It was now or never.
I fired the first shot and watched his body collapse on the stairs.
"Get out of my house!" I screamed, listening for movement.
"Tyshawn!" I heard another voice cry out.
Then I locked eyes on the next two as they came running around the corner.
But I didn't notice the rest of the gang coming from behind them until it was too late. They raised their guns, aiming blindly toward the top of the stairs.
Gunshots erupted through the mansion.
I quickly replaced the clip with a .223 magazine.
"God, I don't want to hurt anybody," I whispered, trying to breathe.
Then I pulled the trigger—and watched the AR-15 spit out 45 rounds in less than a minute.
"Let's go!" someone shouted as they scrambled in panic, not knowing where the bullets were coming from.
The house was pitch black. They couldn't see me.
But I could see them.
I felt sick. It didn't feel like protecting my family—it felt like hunting. But they left me no choice.
It was them or my kids.
I watched as one body dropped. Another screamed in pain. Then I saw three of them limp out the front door, wounded.
Not dead—but I knew they were hit.
And they knew now...
I'm not the one to be played with.
I heard sirens approaching in the distance. Relief finally washed over me—but I couldn't move. I was frozen in shock.
I looked at the lifeless bodies, then threw the AR to the side, yanked off the goggles, and rolled over onto my back.
"Fuck me," I gasped, staring at the ceiling.
I didn't deserve this. I didn't deserve to go through this—alone.
Everything I ever did was to help people. I never asked for help. Ever.
I'm a strong, independent woman. A mother. A boss.
But in that moment... I just wanted to be held.
I just wanted to cry on someone's shoulder.
But I was alone.
"Atlanta Police Department!" a voice shouted.
"They're gone," I yelled back, out of breath.
"Is anyone hurt? Is there anyone else in the house?" an officer asked as he pointed his flashlight at the body on the stairs.
"My kids," I said weakly.
Police swarmed into the house.
"The power box is in the bedroom... next to the closet," I whispered, pointing.
Moments later, I heard the generator kick on. Light flooded the house, burning my eyes. I tried to get up—my kids were all I could think about.
"Clear!" someone yelled from downstairs.
"Looks like you won the war, Ms. Fatima," one officer said softly, reaching out to help me.
"Never play with a mother. I have to get to my kids," I whispered.
Then the pain hit me.
"Oh my—" the officer gasped as he rushed to my side.
I touched the left side of my head and felt warm blood.
I had been shot.
The pain was unreal—like someone stabbing my scalp over and over.
My adrenaline had kept it hidden, but now that I was calm, I could feel it all.
"My... kk-kids," I stuttered.
I was determined to reach them. I knew they were scared. I knew they were shaking, waiting on me.
My kids were my life. My heart. Everything I ever accomplished was for them.
I was raising Kings and Queens. And I'd be damned if anybody took that away.
I sacrificed so much. Became a mom young. Never partied. Never lost focus. I just chased the bag. I built two multimillion-dollar businesses by 28.
I was taking care of all my family back home in Guinea, West Africa—building hospitals, schools, fixing a broken system.
So who was I to give up?
I took one more step toward the hallway—and collapsed.
Everything went black.