At 34 weeks pregnant, I was finally getting some rest when my husband, Daniel, screamed, “Fire! Fire!” Panicked, I bolted out of bed, clutching my belly, only
to find him and his friends laughing—it was just a prank. He knew my history: when I was 17, my family home burned down, and we lost everything, even our dog.
That trauma never left me. I obsessively check the stove and outlets to this day. I had shared this with Daniel, trusted him with that part of me.
So when he used it as a joke, something inside me snapped. I locked myself in the bedroom, trembling. By morning, I’d called my dad and left.
By 9 a.m., I had spoken to a lawyer and started the divorce process. Daniel apologized repeatedly,
claiming it was “just a joke,” but it wasn’t. It was heartless and dangerous—especially while I was carrying our child.
Some say I overreacted. I say I finally stood up for myself. If he could laugh at my deepest fear during pregnancy,
what else would he dismiss as a joke later? I chose peace for me and my baby—because love without respect isn’t love at all.
