Thirty-four weeks pregnant, I was fast asleep when Daniel suddenly screamed, “Fire! Fire! Get up!” Terrified, I grabbed my pillow to shield my belly and ran downstairs—only to find Daniel and his friends laughing. “It was all a prank—something they thought would be fun.”
For me, it wasn’t. The fake alarm brought back memories of a real fire from my teenage years—the smoke, the panic, the fear that never left me. That night, his joke became “a cruel disregard for my deepest fears.”
Through tears, I tried explaining how serious it was, but his apologies felt empty. I locked myself in our bedroom, shaking, realizing that “the person who should have protected me had chosen to mock something that scarred me for life.”
When my dad came to pick me up, he reminded me gently that I deserved respect and peace—especially now. His words gave me the strength I didn’t know I had.
The next morning, I filed for divorce. Daniel begged for forgiveness, but some wounds can’t be fixed with promises. That night didn’t just reveal a prank—it revealed who he truly was. Now, awaiting my baby, I know one truth: protecting my child and my peace comes first.
