I was 34 weeks pregnant when my world turned upside down in the middle of the night. My husband, Daniel, jolted me awake, yelling “Fire! Fire!” in a panic. Heart racing, I rushed downstairs only to find him and his friends laughing it was a prank. They thought scaring a pregnant woman who had lived through a house fire was funny. I was horrified. This wasn’t just a joke to me; it was a terrifying reminder of a trauma I had never fully healed from. That night, I locked myself in the bedroom, overwhelmed by fear, disbelief, and betrayal.

The next morning, after a long, tearful call with my dad and a sleepless night, I made the hardest decision of my life—I called my lawyer and filed for divorce. Daniel’s actions weren’t harmless fun; they were deeply cruel. Even after I’d told him about losing my childhood home and my dog to a fire, he had chosen to mock my fear. Worse still, he did it while I was carrying our child. His apology the next day meant nothing. The trust was shattered, and no excuse could undo what he had done.

Though my father supported me, my mother called me dramatic and urged me to forgive Daniel. But I stood firm. I realized that staying would only teach Daniel that my fears and my safety didn’t matter. This wasn’t just about me anymore. I had a baby on the way, and I had to protect both of us from someone who found humor in emotional harm. Daniel’s prank wasn’t a mistake it was a choice, and one I could no longer overlook.

It’s been two days since I walked out of that apartment. Daniel’s messages haven’t stopped, but I’ve stopped reading them. I deserve better. My child deserves better. I will raise this baby in a home where their mother is respected, heard, and safe. That night changed everything, but it also woke me up to a truth I had been ignoring for too long: love without respect is not love at all.