From Trauma to Love

The evening rain tapped steadily against the windows of their modest apartment. Zara dropped her handbag on the couch with a sigh, her body weary from the long day at the hospital. She found Kunle standing by the kitchen sink, staring blankly at a chipped mug in his hand.

“You forgot to lock the front door again,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.

Kunle stiffened. “I’m sorry, Zara. I had a lot on my mind.”

“It’s always something!” she snapped before she could stop herself.

Silence swelled between them. The tension, once again, hung like a thick cloud.

“This isn’t about the door, is it?” Kunle said, voice low.

Zara folded her arms, blinking back tears. “No. It’s about feeling like I have to fix everything, like I did with my father.”

“And you think I don’t feel broken too?” Kunle’s voice cracked. “Every little mistake feels like I’m failing again… just like I failed to protect my mum.”

They both stood there, wounded, breathing heavily, two people trying to outrun the ghosts of their past.

“I thought marriage would erase the pain,” Zara whispered.

“I thought love would be enough,” Emeka replied, his eyes glistening.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Then Kunle stepped closer, gently taking her hand. “Maybe… Maybe we need help. Together.”

“You mean… counselling?” Zara’s voice wavered.

He nodded. “We said ‘for better or worse,’ didn’t we? This is our ‘worst.’ But I don’t want to keep hurting you.”

Zara felt something shift inside her, like a tightly locked door cracking open. “I don’t want to keep punishing you for the past either.”

The next week, they decided to face their trauma; they sat across from a soft-spoken counsellor in a small office. Week after week, they learned how to listen without attacking, how to speak without fear, and how to grieve without guilt. They cried. They fought. They forgave.

Slowly, laughter began to return to their home, small, hesitant at first, then louder, freer. Kunle started leaving little notes for Zara in the mornings, while she surprised him with his favourite meals after work. Their love deepened, not because the pain disappeared, but because they faced it together.

One evening, as they ate dinner over their dining table, Kunle squeezed her hand.

“I’m not perfect,” he said. “But I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours,” Zara smiled.