At 34 weeks pregnant, I was finally asleep after a long day when I heard my husband Daniel shouting:
“Mary, wake up! Fire! Fire!”My heart stopped. I shot out of bed, clutching my belly and racing downstairs, terrified. But there was no fire.Just Daniel and his friends, laughing.It was a prank.

Daniel knew my past. When I was 17, my family home burned down.We barely escaped, and we lost everything — including our beloved dog. The trauma still follows me. I obsessively check outlets, the stove, the candles — anything that could spark a flame.

I’ve told him how that night haunts me.And yet, he thought it would be funny.That moment broke something in me. I locked myself in our bedroom, shaking. I didn’t sleep. At sunrise, I called my dad and left.By noon, I’d called a lawyer and started the divorce process.

Daniel has been apologizing nonstop. Promising it was just a joke. But here’s the truth: it wasn’t funny. It was cruel. Disrespectful. Dangerous.And if he could mock my deepest fear while I was pregnant, what would he be capable of later — as a father?Some people say I’m overreacting. I say I’m protecting my peace — and my child.Because love without respect isn’t love at all.