3 AM. Eight months pregnant. My husband’s scream of “FIRE!” sent me lurching upright, gasping for air as phantom smoke filled my lungs.
Then the laughter started.
Daniel doubled over, delighted with himself. “You should’ve seen your face!” He didn’t notice how my hands clutched at the burn scars on my arms—reminders of the apartment fire I’d barely escaped at nineteen.
As his chuckles faded, so did my love. That moment revealed everything: the cruelty beneath his charm, the disrespect masquerading as humor.
I moved out before dawn. His bewildered “You’re overreacting!” confirmed my decision. My child deserves better than a father who mistakes trauma for comedy.
