The Dark Nights of February (Part 2)

The Dark Nights of February (Part 2)

Jane was never one to express her emotions easily. She held things in, kept them locked away inside her heart, even when they weighed her down. I had always told her that if I ever made her sad, she should talk to me so we could solve our problems together as a family. But for Jane, that wasn’t how she operated. She found it difficult to open up, and that was something that deeply disturbed me.

I believed in communication, in talking things out rather than letting emotions fester in silence. Hidden tears, suppressed pain—those things only created distance between two people who had vowed to be one. My prayer had always been for Jane to feel safe enough to share her thoughts and feelings with me.

But instead of talking to me, she went to my father.

She told him everything—about the night I came home drunk, about how I failed to acknowledge her, about how I had let my actions hurt her. My father, shocked and disappointed, couldn’t keep it to himself. He went on to tell my mother, and that nearly broke her.

When my phone rang, and I saw my father’s name on the screen, my heart pounded. I hesitated before answering, knowing that whatever he had to say would not be easy to hear.

“Son,” he said, his voice carrying both sadness and authority. “Tell me, is it true? What happened that night?”

For a moment, I wanted to deny everything. I wanted to resist, to defend myself, to justify my actions. But the tone in my father’s voice, the honesty and concern that weighed his words, stripped away my pride. So, I told him the truth.

He was deeply disappointed. I could hear it in his sighs, in the long pauses between his words. But despite his disappointment, he forgave me. My mother, who had been shaken to the core, also found it in her heart to forgive me.

That night, after the call, another wave of anger built up inside me—not towards myself, but towards Jane.

I felt betrayed. She had gone behind my back and told my parents without informing me. I kept asking myself—what if my mother had died from the shock of what she was told? How would I have lived with that? How could I have faced my father? How could I have convinced him that I wasn’t as bad as I seemed?

I stormed into the bedroom where Jane sat, nursing our little girl. My emotions took over me, and I spoke words I never should have spoken. Anger clouded my judgment, and I let frustration dictate my actions.

Jane sat there, listening, absorbing the storm of my emotions. She didn’t lash back. She didn’t crumble under my words. She was strong, stronger than I expected.

And when the anger faded, when the storm inside me settled, I saw her for who she truly was—not my enemy, not someone trying to humiliate me, but my wife. The woman who had been there for me, for us, through the ups and downs.

I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” I finally said, the weight of the night pressing down on me.

Jane looked at me, her eyes filled with something I couldn’t quite place—hurt, love, understanding.

“Let misunderstandings bring us closer,” I whispered, “not tear us apart.”

She nodded, and in that moment, I realized that marriage was not about being right or wrong. It was about learning, growing, and choosing each other even in the darkest of nights.

February had been cruel, but it didn’t have to define us.