I was 34 weeks pregnant when everything changed in an instant. In the dead of night, my husband, Daniel, shook me awake, screaming “Fire! Fire!” as if our home were burning down. My heart pounded as I bolted downstairs in a panic only to be met with laughter. Daniel and his friends were cracking up, revealing it was all just a prank. But for me, it wasn’t a joke. It was a flashback to the house fire I’d survived as a child, one that had taken both my childhood home and my beloved dog. The terror was real, and Daniel knew it. That night, I locked myself in our bedroom, consumed by fear, betrayal, and disbelief.
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