I was soundly sleeping at thirty-four weeks pregnant when my husband’s frantic, nighttime shouts startled me. His reason destroyed my life, and by morning, I had no choice but to file for divorce.
My heart is heavy with grief as I wait for my kid to arrive. With two weeks to go until my due date, I can’t decide whether to get a divorce or welcome my little bundle of joy into the world. This is the tale of how one fateful night altered everything, and my name is Mary.
Daniel and I have been married for five years, and we have had a wonderful marriage, or so I believed.
My husband used to tell me, “You’re being ridiculous, Mary,” if I was frightened about a fire. “There’s a smoke alarm, what’s the worst that could happen?”
However, I was unable to get over my dread.
“My Mom’s house burned down when I was 17. We lost our pet dog, Grampa. The smell of smoke still haunts me, Dan,” I once told Daniel, but he just patted my hand and said not to worry.
I could still smell the smoke, hear the sirens, and recall being terrified as my parents and I crawled out from under the smoke that fatal night.
The rescue team and our neighbors were able to save us, but we lost everything. Daniel kept assuring me, but it didn’t ease my fears—the trauma still lingers.
