After Christmas, the house felt even colder, not because of the Harmattan winds that swept through the cracked windows, but because something in the air had changed. Sarah—David's second wife—sat silently in the corner of the one-room apartment, her baby cradled in her frail arms. The walls that once echoed with the occasional laugh or chatter were now bare and brittle, like the love that never truly lived between David and Sarah.
The television that had been their only escape into a world far better than theirs was gone. So was the generator that gave them light during the long dark nights. David had sold them both a few days after Christmas without any remorse. When Sarah confronted him about it, he simply muttered, "We need the money. This city is choking me."
It wasn't just the city that was choking him; it was his conscience, his failures, and the weight of the man he used to be. David was no longer the vibrant, promising truck driver who had once made Mercy feel like a queen. Now, he was a hollow shell of a man with nothing but regrets and bitterness.
The morning he handed Sarah some crumpled naira notes for her journey back to the village, she didn't cry. She didn't beg. She simply nodded, wrapped her infant tighter in her wrapper, and began to gather what little she had. The few clothes, the worn slippers, the baby's feeding bottle—each item a reminder of dreams that never blossomed.
"You can go," David said coldly, his eyes avoiding hers.
Sarah looked at him one last time. "You are a man with no future, David. You destroy everything you touch," she said softly.
David flinched, but he didn't respond.
By noon, Sarah was gone.
The house felt even emptier now, though it had never truly been a home. David sat alone on the floor, staring at the bare spot where the television used to be. He drank a sachet of cheap gin and lay back, letting the silence drown him.
---
A week passed.
David dialed a number on his phone with trembling fingers. The line rang twice before Mercy picked up.
"Hello?" her voice came through, hopeful and warm.
"Mercy… it's me," David said.
She gasped. "David? Is that really you?"
"Yes… I'm coming home."
There was silence for a beat before Mercy's voice returned, softer, trembling with emotion. "Oh, David… thank God. We've missed you. The children—Daniel especially—talks about you every day."
David swallowed hard. He couldn't speak. His tongue felt heavy.
"I'll prepare the house," Mercy said quickly. "We'll be waiting."
She had no idea what kind of man was returning.
---
On the 5th of January, David returned to the house he had abandoned years ago. The street hadn't changed much, but the house had. It was tired, worn, a shadow of what it once was. Yet, as soon as he stepped out of the taxi, four figures rushed toward him.
"Papa!" Faith cried, tears already in her eyes.
"Daddy!" Anita shouted, clinging to him.
Daniel, barely seven now, ran with open arms and flung himself at David's legs. "Papa, I knew you'd come back!"
David was stunned. He hadn't expected the warmth, the love, the unshaken devotion from children he had left behind. He had come back expecting resentment, maybe even cold indifference.
But Mercy's face—when she stepped out of the house, wiping her hands on her wrapper—was what broke him. She wasn't angry. She was glowing with hope.
"Welcome, David," she said simply.
David lowered his head. "Thank you for not giving up."
"I never did," she replied. "Come inside."
---
Inside, the house was cleaner than he remembered. Mercy had kept it together with nothing but her strength and love. There was no generator, no fancy food, and the roof still leaked, but there was peace.
Faith brought him a glass of water, and Anita sat close, asking him about his travels. Daniel kept touching his father's face, as if to make sure he wasn't dreaming.
That night, Mercy served dinner—a simple plate of rice and beans, the best she could offer. David ate in silence, aware of how much he had failed them. Mercy had not only kept the children safe but had made sure they still loved their father.
"I… I came back because I have nowhere else to go," David said finally after dinner.
Mercy looked at him and nodded. "This will always be your home, David. But I pray you've changed."
David didn't respond. Because deep down, he knew he hadn't. He didn't come back out of repentance; he came back because Sarah had left, and he had nothing left to hold on to.
But Mercy still hoped.
---
Over the next few days, David tried to reintegrate into the family. He fetched water once, helped Daniel with homework once—but the rest of the time, he slept or left the house without saying where he was going. Mercy noticed, but she didn't complain. She had learned the hard way that some wounds only heal with time, and some men change only when life crushes every part of them.
Daniel, however, was filled with joy. Every day, he followed David around like a shadow, asking questions, laughing at everything his father said, trying to bond with him. He didn't know that David barely noticed him. The little boy's heart was pure—he believed this was the beginning of a new life.
One evening, Daniel handed David a drawing. It was stick figures—himself, Faith, Anita, Mercy, and David—all holding hands.
"We're a family again, Papa. I drew this for you."
David stared at the paper. His hands trembled. "Thank you, son," he said hoarsely.
He placed it on the table and walked outside into the night.
---
But darkness followed David wherever he went. He owed money. Old drinking friends pulled him back into clubs and cheap bars. One night, he didn't return until dawn. Mercy sat outside waiting, Daniel asleep on her lap.
When David stumbled home, drunk and barely able to walk, she didn't yell.
"David," she said gently, "you promised the children. Please… at least for them."
He looked at her, and for a moment, the old rage flickered in his eyes.
"I didn't promise anything," he snapped. "I came back because I had nowhere else to go!"
Mercy's heart sank. She had known. Deep down, she had known.
Faith, who had overheard everything, walked past David into the house, tears streaming down her face. She was only fourteen but carried the weight of an adult.
The man they had welcomed back was not a changed man. He was the man with no future.