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My daughter, Luna, was suffocating. It happened at a church picnic, just after she ate a peanut cookie handed to her by Seraphina—her father’s “miraculously returned” ex-wife. I lunged for the first-aid kit, my fingers closing around the EpiPen that could save her life. But my husband, Jacob, the celebrity pastor everyone worshipped, seized my wrist. In front of the entire congregation, he announced in a ringing voice, “This isn’t an allergy. This is a disturbance from the devil! We will cast it out through prayer!” For months, my home had been turned into a guesthouse for his “traumatized” ex-wife. My research data had been destroyed. My exhaustion had been used as evidence on social media that I “lacked spirituality.” He always said, “She needs healing. You need to have the love of Christ.” And I endured it. I told myself it was the last concession I could make—as a wife, as a scientist—to his faith. But now, looking at my daughter turning purple in m......