By the time Daniel turned two, everything in the house had changed. What once echoed with laughter now echoed with sobs, raised voices, and the sound of slammed doors. Mercy held Daniel tightly in her arms most nights, trying to silence her own cries so that her baby wouldn't wake up afraid. But the silence was rarely enough to cover the pain.
David, once the man who spoiled his wife and daughters with cars and gifts, now came home late with the smell of alcohol and bitterness hanging on him like a cloud. His business had crumbled, and with it, his patience, his pride, and his love.
"Why is this boy always sick?" David would bark angrily, pointing toward Daniel, who often lay curled on a mattress, his tiny body wracked with fever or weakness. "Ever since he came into this house, nothing good has happened again!"
Mercy would stiffen, shielding Daniel protectively. "He's your son! A sick child needs love, not blame."
"Love? You think I have time for that? When I'm out there trying to pick up the pieces of what's left of my life?" David snapped. "You and your cursed son are draining me!"
It was the first time he called Daniel "cursed," but it wouldn't be the last.
Each hospital visit seemed to chip away at David's patience. The cost of Daniel's medication, blood transfusions, and countless tests added to their debts. The once-cheerful restaurant Mercy had managed was sold. The last of David's friends vanished when the money ran out. All that remained was a broken family and a sick little boy whose illness no one had prepared for.
Daniel didn't understand why his father looked at him with such hate. He only understood that when Daddy was angry, Mummy cried and sometimes held him so tight he couldn't breathe.
---
David's elder brother, James, had started visiting more often. Mercy didn't like his presence—his words were like poison, and his eyes always carried the smugness of a man who had waited to see someone fall.
"You see, David," James said one evening, seated casually on their worn-out sofa, "you made a mistake marrying this woman. She brought bad luck to your life. And this boy—" he flicked his head toward Daniel's room "—is proof."
Mercy had just walked in with a bowl of water to sponge Daniel's fever when she heard him.
"Get out," she snapped, standing in front of the doorway like a shield. "Don't talk about my child like that in his own home!"
James didn't even flinch. "Your child? He's a disgrace. People are whispering already—saying your child has 'spirit sickness.' You should be thankful David still keeps you under his roof."
"James!" David's voice came, half-hearted and uncertain. "That's enough…"
"No, it's not enough!" James insisted. "You're the laughing stock of this street! You were rich! Now look at you—living in a crumbling apartment with a woman who gave you a dying child!"
Mercy's eyes burned with tears. "You think this is easy for me? Do you know what it's like to watch your son scream in pain and not be able to do anything?"
"Then do the right thing," James said coldly. "Go back to your people. Let David marry someone from home—someone who will bring him peace and children that live normal lives."
Mercy dropped the bowl, the water splashing across the floor. Her hands shook.
"You are wicked," she whispered.
David remained silent.
---
The beatings started not long after that night. At first, it was a push. A slap. Then fists. Mercy hid the bruises from the children as best as she could, but Faith had seen. Anita had heard. And Daniel… Daniel always felt it.
He would cry quietly when his mother came to lie beside him, wincing from a swollen cheek or a cut lip. Mercy never explained. She only whispered, "It's okay, baby. Mummy's here. I'm here."
But one night, David came home in a rage, furious that Mercy had taken Daniel to the hospital again without telling him.
"Do I look like a money tree to you?" he bellowed.
"He was fainting!" Mercy pleaded. "He had a crisis. They had to give him blood. I didn't have time to wait for you to come home!"
"You should have let him die!" David shouted.
Then came the blow. This time it was harder. And it didn't stop.
Faith screamed. Anita ran to get water. Little Daniel sat on the floor, his tiny arms wrapped around his legs, his lips trembling as he watched his mother being kicked like an animal.
And still, Mercy shielded her child from everything. Even as her vision blurred and her ribs throbbed, she crawled toward Daniel and whispered, "Go inside. Mummy's okay. Just go inside…"
Daniel didn't go. He stayed and cried.
---
The neighbors had heard it all. But no one said anything. No one ever said anything.
James came again the next day, pretending to console David.
"She deserved it," he muttered. "She brought shame. Your child brings shame. There are better women in the village who will give you peace."
Mercy, standing behind the door, heard those words. And for the first time, she began to wonder if she and her children would ever know peace in that house.
---
Daniel's health only got worse. The hospital visits increased. He was often too weak to walk, and his tiny legs would shake under the weight of his own body. But he never stopped smiling when Mercy held him. That little smile gave her strength.
But one night, during a severe crisis, when his body went into convulsions and his lips turned pale, Mercy raced with him in her arms to the nearest clinic, barefoot, sobbing, with Faith running behind her.
They arrived just in time to save his life. But the doctor looked at Mercy with tired eyes.
"He needs constant care," the doctor said. "He needs love, patience, and peace. Stress will kill him."
Mercy nodded, tears falling freely. "He doesn't have peace. None of us do."
---
The pain wasn't just in the sickness anymore—it was in the walls of their home, in the broken chairs, in the eyes of her daughters who had grown quiet and afraid, in the bruises she tried to hide, and in the silence that followed every argument.
One night, as she laid Daniel to sleep, she whispered something she'd never said aloud before.
"Maybe… maybe I should leave."
Daniel, though barely awake, clutched her finger and murmured, "Mummy… don't cry."
She did cry. For hours.
---
At two years old, Daniel had already seen enough pain to fill a lifetime. He didn't know what would come next, but his body, fragile and tired, seemed to understand that something had shifted in his mother's heart.
And for the first time in years, Mercy began to pray—not for money, not for David to love her again, but for the strength to make a choice. A choice that might save her children… and herself.