The house was smaller now—two bedrooms, peeling walls, and a rusted iron gate that screeched whenever someone pushed it open. The air inside always smelled faintly of medication, mixed with the scent of palm oil and dust. But Mercy kept it clean. Spotless, even. Not because she was trying to impress anyone—those days were long gone—but because it was the only thing she could still control.
Daniel had just turned two.
And in those two years, Mercy had watched her world shrink.
The once-proud David—the man who once bought her a car just for being his wife, who danced with her under moonlight, who called her his queen—was now a shadow of himself. His shoulders drooped. His face was always tight with frustration. And his hands… his hands, which once held her with tenderness, had now become the source of her deepest pain.
It started small.
A raised voice when she forgot to warm his food.
A sharp grip on her wrist when she asked about money.
Then, one night, when Daniel was running a fever and the power was out, Mercy asked David if he could go to the chemist to buy medicine. David had just returned from a long day of menial labor, drenched in sweat, his pride hanging by a thread. Her question—innocent, urgent—tore something in him.
"Am I a slave to you?" he shouted.
"David, he's burning up," Mercy pleaded, holding their son close. "Please, I need you—"
The slap came without warning. A hard, stinging crack across her cheek that echoed in the dark room.
Mercy didn't cry. Not that night. She simply held Daniel closer, rocking him as her cheek swelled and her heart cracked open.
From that day, something shifted in their home. The man she had loved began to disappear, replaced by someone colder. Angrier. Crueler.
"Why did you give birth to this boy?" David would sneer on the hard days. "He's bleeding me dry!"
"He's your son," she'd whisper.
"No! He's a curse. You brought him here to punish me."
Mercy knew he didn't mean all of it—not truly. It was the pain talking. The helplessness. The pride that couldn't bear the sound of bills they couldn't pay or the sight of a child who spent more time in a hospital bed than a playground.
But knowing didn't make the bruises hurt less.
It didn't make the nights shorter or the fear smaller.
David's elder brother, James, came to visit one weekend.
James had always been a man of influence in their village—a respected elder with a booming voice and thick, judgmental eyes. He walked into their tiny home wearing a white kaftan and an expression of barely concealed disapproval.
"What kind of life are you living now, David?" James asked that evening as they sat outside under the fading sky. "You were once the envy of every man. Now look at you—living like a beggar. Because of one sick child."
David sighed. "What can I do? The boy is always ill. The hospital bills—"
"You are a man," James interrupted. "You cannot allow one woman's weak womb to ruin your life. Marry another. A healthy woman from the village. One who can give you strong sons. Proper sons."
Mercy heard them from the kitchen. The words stabbed through her like broken glass.
James continued, lowering his voice just enough to make his cruelty sound like wisdom. "This Mercy… she has brought nothing but sorrow since that boy came. If you stay with her, she will drown you."
David didn't respond immediately. He lit a cigarette—one he had picked up since the stress began—and looked into the distance.
"I don't even recognize myself anymore," he muttered.
Mercy stood frozen in the kitchen, her heart pounding. She held a wooden spoon in her hand, but her fingers had gone numb. Tears slipped down her cheeks, not because of James, but because she feared David would listen.
That night, David didn't speak to her.
He barely looked at Daniel.
When James left the next morning, he clapped David on the shoulder. "Think about what I said. You still have time."
Days passed, and Mercy noticed the change.
David came home later than usual. He stopped eating her food. He stopped asking about Daniel. He started talking about the village more—how peaceful it was, how the women there were respectful, obedient.
One evening, Mercy decided to confront him.
"David," she began, gently. "Is there… someone else?"
He didn't answer.
"I heard what your brother said," she whispered.
David stood abruptly. "Don't start, Mercy."
"I'm your wife. The mother of your children."
"You're the mother of a sick child who's draining the life out of me!"
The slap came again. This time harder. This time, Daniel was awake, crying in the background.
Mercy stumbled, her lip bleeding. She didn't fight back. She didn't scream. She simply looked at the man she had once loved and saw a stranger staring back.
Later that night, as she cradled Daniel in her arms, she whispered softly into his ear, "You are not a curse. You are my blessing. My joy. And no matter what happens, I will fight for you."
Her words were a promise—and a prayer.
The next morning, she woke up before dawn to prepare Daniel's medications. His chest had started hurting again, and his breathing was shallow. She wrapped him in a blanket and carried him to the nearby clinic.
The nurse, a kind woman named Esther, frowned when she saw them. "He needs blood again. His PCV is dangerously low."
Mercy swallowed hard. "We have nothing left at home."
Esther placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "There's a donor drive at the general hospital this weekend. Try to take him there. But Mercy…" Her voice lowered. "You need rest too. You look... tired."
Tired was an understatement.
Mercy was drowning.
Not just from poverty or pain—but from loneliness. From betrayal. From the slow death of a marriage that once gave her wings.
That evening, as David returned, Mercy stood at the doorway.
"We need to take Daniel to the general hospital on Saturday. He needs blood."
David didn't even pause. "Tell the doctors to find another patient. I'm done wasting my life."
Mercy clenched her jaw. "He's your son."
David turned. His eyes were bloodshot. "Not anymore."
It was the cruelest thing he had ever said.
And it broke something inside Mercy—something she never thought could break.
She didn't cry this time.
She didn't beg.
She simply turned and walked into the room, holding Daniel tighter than ever.
That night, as Daniel slept fitfully, Mercy stayed awake.
Staring at the ceiling.
Whispering silent prayers.
And promising herself that one day—no matter how long it took—she would find a way to protect her son from a world that didn't understand him. From a father who had given up. From a society that saw him as a burden instead of a boy.
Because no one else would.
And because Daniel deserved more than this broken world had offered him.
He deserved love.
He deserved hope.
He deserved life.