My husband warned me not to swim, but I didn’t listen. I wanted the pool to myself—cool water, night air, stars overhead. I came back smiling and dripping wet, only to find him staring at me, phone in hand.
“Here’s your punishment,” he said, playing a video he’d recorded.
At first, I laughed, watching myself swim carefree. Then he paused it. In the corner of the screen, a dark shape moved beneath the water—slow, deliberate, close. My stomach dropped.
“That’s why they close the pool early,” he said quietly. “The lights attract sea snakes from the bay.”
The excitement vanished instantly. Wrapped in a towel, I realized how easily I’d ignored his warning—not out of rebellion, but pride. I wanted to feel fearless. Instead, I’d been reckless.
I barely slept that night, the image of that shadow lingering in my mind. By morning, I apologized. He smiled gently and said, “Sometimes love sounds like a warning.”
He was right. Since then, I’ve learned that listening doesn’t mean losing independence—it means trusting that love sometimes sees danger before we do.
