At thirty-four weeks pregnant, I was jolted awake by my husband Daniel’s urgent cries: “Fire! Fire!” My heart raced as I rushed downstairs, only to find him laughing with friends, a cruel prank at my expense.

Years of trauma flooded back—my childhood home burned down, a nightmare I still relived. Daniel had always dismissed my fears, but this felt like a betrayal. I stormed back upstairs, heartbroken and confused, wondering how he could toy with my deepest anxieties.

Desperate for support, I called my dad, who arrived quickly and immediately sensed the gravity of the situation. “We’re leaving,” he said, and I nodded, feeling a mix of relief and sadness.

As we drove in silence, my dad reassured me, “You’re worth so much more than this.” Those words resonated deeply. Back home, the full impact of Daniel’s actions hit me—this wasn’t just a joke; it was a threat to my well-being and that of my unborn child.

The next morning, I decided to take control. I called a lawyer and filed for divorce. My dad stood by me, but my mom dismissed my feelings, insisting I was overreacting. Yet I knew better. Daniel’s actions showed a blatant disregard for my fears.

Now, I must prioritize my safety and my child’s well-being. Forgiveness could come later, but for now, I needed to protect myself from someone who couldn’t respect my boundaries.