At thirty-four weeks pregnant, I was deep in a rare, peaceful sleep when Daniel’s frantic voice jolted me awake: “Fire! Fire! Get up!”
Within minutes I learned it was nothing more than a prank for his friends’ amusement. By sunrise, I was calling a lawyer.
Within minutes I learned it was nothing more than a prank for his friends’ amusement. By sunrise, I was calling a lawyer.
I’m Mary. Five years ago Daniel felt like my safe place; now I’m two weeks from giving birth and one signature away from ending our marriage.
The terror he staged that night wasn’t random. When I was seventeen, my childhood home burned to the ground. We escaped, but I still smell phantom smoke and can’t walk past a candle aisle without my chest tightening. Daniel knows this—he’s watched me check outlets, the stove, every lock before bed—yet he told his buddies triggering me would be “hilarious.”
I stumbled downstairs, clutching my belly, only to meet laughter. They’d planned it. He’d planned it.
The apology he offered after the room quieted couldn’t drown out the sirens echoing in my head.
The apology he offered after the room quieted couldn’t drown out the sirens echoing in my head.
I locked myself in the bedroom, called my dad, and within ten minutes he was at the door. Daniel sat on the couch, still half-grinning, until my father’s glare wiped it away.
We left without a word.
We left without a word.
At my parents’ house, the adrenaline wore off and reality set in: if Daniel could weaponize my deepest fear for a cheap laugh, what would he teach our child about respect, safety, and love?
The next morning I filed for divorce.
Daniel’s texts and voicemails overflow with remorse, but apologies don’t undo terror. My job now is to protect the tiny life kicking inside me and to prove—starting with this decision—that some boundaries are immovable.
Daniel’s texts and voicemails overflow with remorse, but apologies don’t undo terror. My job now is to protect the tiny life kicking inside me and to prove—starting with this decision—that some boundaries are immovable.