I was 34 weeks pregnant when my husband woke me in the middle of the night, shouting “Fire!” Heart racing, I rushed downstairs, terrified. But when I got there, I found him and his friends laughing—it was a prank. A “joke” he thought would be funny. Except it wasn’t. It triggered one of my deepest traumas: when I was a teenager, my childhood home burned down. I’d told Daniel about it. He knew. And he did it anyway.
I’m Mary, and that night changed everything. Daniel had always brushed off my fear of fire, calling me paranoid for double-checking outlets and extinguishing candles. But I was careful—for myself, and for the baby we were about to welcome.
