Thirty-four weeks pregnant and deep in sleep, I was jolted awake by my husband’s urgent shouts in the dead of night.
“Mary! Wake up! Fire! Fire! Get up now!”
My heart pounded in my chest. Adrenaline surged through my veins as I sat up in bed, my breath coming in short gasps. My hands instinctively cradled my belly, protecting my unborn child as I scrambled to my feet.
“Daniel! What happened? Where’s the fire?!” I cried, stumbling toward the door. The panic in my voice was real. The fear gripped me so tightly that I could barely breathe.
I raced down the stairs, my pulse hammering, expecting to see flames licking at the walls. But what I found instead stopped me in my tracks.
Laughter.
Daniel and his friends were doubled over, clutching their stomachs as they howled with amusement. One of them slapped Daniel on the back.
“Dude, that was epic! She totally fell for it!”
I stood there frozen, my chest heaving, my mind struggling to process what was happening. My vision blurred with tears as Daniel wiped his eyes and grinned at me.
“Relax, Mary. It was just a joke!”
A joke?
A joke?
The world tilted around me. My body trembled as I took a step back. My worst nightmare had been turned into some kind of sick entertainment for Daniel and his friends.
“How could you?” My voice cracked as I whispered the words.
Daniel’s smile faltered for a split second before he rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, babe. It was just harmless fun!”
But it wasn’t harmless. It wasn’t fun.
It was cruel.
He knew what fire meant to me. He knew about the trauma I carried—the night my childhood home burned down when I was seventeen. The smoke. The suffocating heat. The desperate scramble to escape. The loss of our family dog, Grampa. The nightmares that had followed me into adulthood.
And yet, he had done this.
Tears streamed down my face as my body shuddered with the weight of the betrayal. I turned away from him and climbed the stairs, my legs shaking with each step.
“Oh, come on! Don’t be dramatic!” Daniel called after me. But I didn’t stop. I locked the bedroom door behind me and slid to the floor, hugging my belly.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” I whispered to my unborn child. “I won’t let anyone hurt us. Not even him.”
I don’t know how long I sat there, but eventually, I grabbed my phone and dialed the one number I knew would always answer.
“Dad?” My voice wavered, but I forced myself to stay strong. “Can you come get me?”
There was silence for a beat, then my father’s voice, steady and full of love. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
True to his word, my dad arrived, his face a mix of concern and quiet fury. He walked past Daniel without a word and helped me gather my things.
Daniel stood in the living room, arms crossed, looking exasperated. “Are you seriously leaving over this? It was just a joke, Mary!”
My father turned to him, his eyes cold. “You don’t play with a person’s deepest fear. And you sure as hell don’t do it to a pregnant woman.”
Daniel scoffed. “She’s overreacting.”
I looked at him one last time, my heart breaking, but my mind made up. “No, Daniel. You just don’t care.”
The next morning, with my dad by my side, I called a lawyer and filed for divorce.
Daniel bombarded me with messages and calls. Apologies. Promises to change. Pleas for me to come back.
But it was too late.
It wasn’t just about the prank. It was about the way he dismissed my feelings. The way he disregarded my trauma. The way he saw my pain as something to be laughed at.
A man who loved me wouldn’t have done that.
And a man who truly respected me wouldn’t have let his friends mock me either.
I had a baby on the way, and I refused to raise my child in an environment where their mother’s emotions were treated like a joke.
Some people said I was overreacting. That I should forgive him. That he didn’t mean to hurt me.
But I knew better.
I knew that love wasn’t just about words. It was about actions.
And Daniel had shown me exactly where I stood in his life.
So, I walked away.
For me.
For my baby.
For the future we both deserved.
