The Dark Nights of February (Part 1)

The Dark Nights of February (Part 1)

February was a month of turmoil for Mercy and me. The cold nights mirrored the chill that had settled between us, a distance so vast that even our little daughter’s innocent giggles could not bridge it. Our days were punctuated by long silences, our nights heavy with unspoken words. It was a month of emotional battles, where love seemed buried beneath anger and misunderstanding.

Mercy had grown increasingly frustrated with my actions. I could sense it in the way she looked at me, in the way she sighed heavily, in the way she withdrew from my touch. I knew I had played a part in her fury, but pride, that stubborn beast, kept me from addressing the issues head-on. Each day, we drifted further apart, and though I wanted to make things right, I was unsure how.

One particular evening stands out as the epitome of the darkness that engulfed our home. My friends had invited me for an evening party. I knew I should have declined, considering the fragile state of my marriage, but the weight of my troubles drove me to seek solace in their company. The gathering was lively, laughter echoing in the dimly lit room as glasses clinked in celebration. Someone handed me a drink—something I rarely indulged in—and against my better judgment, I took a sip. Then another. And another.

By the time I left, it was around 7:30 PM. The streets were quiet, the air thick with the scent of impending rain. I walked into our home, my mind foggy but alert enough to notice Mercy standing in the middle of the living room. Her eyes burned with anger, her lips trembling with words unsaid.

"So this is what you have become?" she spat, her voice laced with resentment. "I curse the day I met you!"

Her words cut deep, but I said nothing. Our little girl sat nearby, oblivious to the storm raging between her parents. She giggled as she played with her food, a picture of innocence amidst the chaos. I should have greeted my wife, should have asked about her day, should have acknowledged her hurt—but I didn’t. I walked past her, my silence screaming louder than any insult I could have hurled.

Mercy picked up our daughter and retreated to the bedroom, leaving me alone in the dimly lit living room. I sat for a while, staring at nothing, my thoughts a whirlwind of regret. I didn’t even realize when I dozed off, nor did I notice that she had left the bedroom lights on throughout the night.

The next morning, I woke up to an empty bed. The absence of my wife and daughter was like a punch to my gut. The lights still shone from our bedroom, illuminating the stark reality I had created. I quickly got up, prepared for work, and left without a word. My heart was heavy, my mind consumed by the distance growing between Mercy and me.

On my way to work, I picked up my phone and sent her a text: *Good morning, Mercy. I’m sorry about yesterday. Can we talk?* The message remained unread.

I sent another: I know I messed up. Please don’t shut me out. Again, no response.

The silence from her end was deafening, suffocating. My mind was no longer at work; my hands moved mechanically through the motions, but my thoughts remained with Mercy. The situation paralyzed me, rendering me incapable of focusing on anything else.

That day, I left work earlier than usual. I needed to see my wife, to tell her I was sorry, to mend what I had broken. As I walked into our home, I found her sitting on the couch, our daughter cradled in her arms. She looked up at me, her eyes softer than they had been the previous night but still clouded with hurt.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this, Felix,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

I sank to my knees before her, my pride stripped away by the weight of my guilt. “I know I’ve been failing you, Mercy. I see the hurt in your eyes, and it kills me. But please… don’t give up on us.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and for the first time in weeks, she didn’t turn away from me. Instead, she sighed, as if releasing a burden she had been carrying for too long.

“We can’t keep hurting each other like this,” she murmured.

I nodded, reaching for her hand, grateful when she didn’t pull away. That night, for the first time in weeks, we talked—not as adversaries, but as two people who once promised to weather life’s storms together. And though February remained a dark month in our memories, it also became the turning point, the moment we chose to fight for our love instead of against each other.