David was just twenty-five when he married Mercy, the beautiful woman who had stolen his heart from the moment he first saw her at the local market. Mercy, only twenty-four then, was graceful, soft-spoken, and carried herself with the quiet dignity of someone who had known struggle but chose to wear strength like perfume. Their love story wasn't born from riches or fairy tales—but it bloomed fast and wild like sunflowers chasing light. And in the year 1985, they became one under the watchful eyes of friends, family, and dreams.
Back then, David was a truck driver—but not just any truck driver. He had carved a niche for himself in logistics, handling high-value contracts that brought in more money than most small businesses made in a month. David was rich—perhaps not in terms of real estate or investments—but in cash, cars, and charisma. He was the kind of man who would walk into a room and make heads turn with his confidence. And he was generous—too generous for his own good.
When Mercy turned twenty-five—just a year into their marriage—David surprised her with a brand-new sedan. The white Toyota Corolla gleamed like a pearl in the sun. Mercy cried tears of joy as he handed her the keys. He wasn't just buying her a car; he was giving her freedom, dignity, and status. And as a gesture of support for her independence, he opened a small but beautiful restaurant for her in town—Mercy's Kitchen. It quickly became the talk of the neighborhood, not only for its delicious meals but for Mercy's warm presence.
A year later, in 1986, they had their first child—a baby girl named Faith. The day Faith was born, David did something that surprised even Mercy—he bought another car, a red convertible. "It's for my princess," he beamed proudly. "When she grows up, she'll ride in nothing but the best."
They threw a naming ceremony that people still talked about for years. It wasn't just a celebration—it was a statement. The baby wore a gold bracelet, custom-made with her name inscribed. David and Mercy danced in the courtyard like nothing else mattered. They were happy. They were hopeful. They were in love.
Two years later, their second daughter, Anita, came into the world, and the celebration was no less grand. David, once again, bought a new car. Friends joked that David would own a fleet of cars if he kept having children, but David didn't mind. His wealth, it seemed, would never end.
By then, both Faith and Anita were enrolled in one of the best private schools in the state. Each girl had her own personal driver and nanny. The children wore imported clothes, shoes with foreign labels, and carried schoolbags that cost more than some families earned in a month.
David was generous—to a fault.
He paid school fees not only for his children but for his friends' kids as well. His house was always full—of relatives, neighbors, and old acquaintances who needed help, and David never said no. Every Friday night, he could be found at the club, buying drinks for everyone like a king throwing coins to his loyal subjects. Mercy, on her part, was no different. She often sent money home to her extended family, who saw her as a miracle worker.
And while the money kept flowing, no one thought to ask: What if it stopped?
They lived in a rented five-bedroom apartment. Spacious, clean, and comfortable—but not theirs. The only things they truly owned were their cars and clothes. Not one plot of land. Not one house to their name. No savings. No investments. Their wealth was a river, not a well—and rivers, as everyone knows, can run dry.
The warning signs were there, but love has a way of silencing reason.
One rainy evening in 1990, Mercy discovered she was pregnant again. Her hands trembled slightly as she looked at the test result. Three children. Was it too much? Could they handle another life?
But when she told David, he kissed her on the forehead and said, "This is our blessing. This one will be different."
And he was right—because this child, the one yet unborn, would be the turning point in their lives. A boy.
The pregnancy was rough. Mercy's body, once strong and glowing, now became weak and pale. She was often tired. Nauseous. At times, her vision would blur, and her legs would swell. Doctors told her to rest, to take supplements, to stop worrying—but how could she not worry? She was carrying something fragile. Something sacred.
In the late months of her pregnancy, David's business began to slow down. The contracts weren't coming in like before. The truck had broken down, and the repairs were draining. He borrowed from friends. Then from Mercy's restaurant income. Then from the bank.
By the time Daniel was born, everything had changed.
The day Daniel came into the world was a stormy one. Not just in weather, but in fate. The sky was gray, and rain fell like tears from heaven. Mercy screamed through hours of labor, her voice echoing through the small hospital room. David paced outside, soaked to the skin, his heart pounding like thunder.
And finally, at 2:45 AM, the cries of a baby boy broke through the darkness.
"He's beautiful," Mercy whispered, tears in her eyes. But the nurse looked uncertain.
"There's… something," she said hesitantly. "His color isn't right."
Daniel was diagnosed with sickle cell anemia just weeks after he was born.
David refused to believe it at first. He stormed into the clinic, demanding a second test. A third. But they all came back the same. His son—the heir he had waited for—was born with a condition that would bring more pain than joy.
Mercy blamed herself. "Maybe I didn't rest enough. Maybe it's my fault."
David didn't blame her. But he began to withdraw. Slowly. Quietly.
The money, once an endless stream, had become a trickle. Friends who once danced at their parties now ignored their calls. The bank came knocking. The rent piled up. The restaurant closed. The cars were sold. One by one.
Faith and Anita were pulled from their private school. The drivers left. The nannies disappeared. The big house became too expensive, and they moved into a small, two-bedroom apartment in the outskirts of town.
David tried everything—odd jobs, borrowing, gambling—but nothing worked. The world that once clapped for him now laughed behind his back.
But through it all, Daniel remained a fighter.
He was a small boy, with eyes too wise for his age and a smile that melted pain. Even on the days when he was in the hospital, fighting for air, he would whisper, "Don't cry, Mama. I'll be fine."
Mercy stayed by his side, night and day. David, though broken, began to see a new strength in his wife. She was no longer just the woman he bought cars for—she was the anchor of their crumbling ship.
And so Daniel grew, between needles and pills, pain and prayer. But he was alive. And with each year, the world would soon learn: this boy, born on a stormy night into a collapsing world, was destined to fly—on wings pain gave him.