Thirty-four weeks pregnant and fast asleep, I was jolted awake by my husband’s urgent cries in the dead of night. What followed shattered my world, and by morning, I knew I had no choice but to file for divorce.

“You’re being ridiculous, Mary,” Daniel would say when I expressed my anxiety about house fires. “We’ve got a smoke alarm, what’s the worst that could happen?”

But for me, the fear was real. When I was 17, my mom’s house burned down, and we lost our beloved dog, Grampa. The memory of that night—the choking smell of smoke, the frantic crawl to safety, the flashing lights of fire trucks—is still vivid. Ever since, fire has been a constant source of anxiety.

Despite Daniel’s reassurances, I couldn’t shake the trauma. Every night, I’d double-check that all the appliances were off, that the stove was unplugged, and that no candles were burning. I couldn’t rest until I knew everything was safe. Daniel was frustrated with me, calling it paranoia, but I couldn’t take chances—not with our baby on the way.