Chapter 1: When the rain brings you home

It was a rainy Sunday morning, the kind that painted the skies gray and poured a hush over the world. The rhythm of the rain on the roof was soft, almost like a lullaby, and everything in the neighborhood moved slower. It was the kind of morning that wrapped you in its chill and whispered, “Stay in bed.”

Sandra sat by the window, her church clothes neatly laid out on the chair beside her. She had woken early, full of energy and purpose, but the downpour dampened both the streets and her spirit. As the sky continued its quiet weeping, she pulled a throw blanket over herself and curled up on the couch, listening... waiting. The rain didn’t stop. Eventually, sleep came, gentle and uninvited.

And then—something warm. A presence.

A familiar hand caressed her shoulder, stirring her awake. Her eyes fluttered open.

Standing there, soaked slightly from the rain but glowing with love, was Michael—her husband. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Michael?” she gasped, bolting upright.

He smiled, arms open.

“I thought I was dreaming,” she whispered, tears already brimming.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he said, stepping forward.

Sandra leaped into his arms, wrapping herself around him like a girl seeing her lover for the first time. Their lips met—tenderly at first, then deeply, hungrily. For months, he had been away, and she had missed him with a loneliness that couldn’t be filled by phone calls or prayers.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” she asked, resting her head against his chest.

Michael chuckled. “Because this moment—this look on your face—is what I’ve been dreaming of. If I told you, it wouldn’t be the same.”

With excitement bubbling in her veins, Sandra darted to the kitchen. She rummaged through the pantry, then the fridge, her mind racing. She didn’t care what it was, as long as she could make something—anything—for her man.

Thirty minutes later, Michael sat at the table, towel around his neck, eyes on his queen. The aroma of jollof rice and peppered chicken filled the room. He took the first spoonful, paused mid-chew, and looked at her with wide eyes.

“My God... You made this in half an hour?”

She grinned.

“I’m indeed blessed to call you my wife,” he said, reaching across the table. “If our children inherit even a pinch of your talent, they’ll be unstoppable.”

Sandra’s smile flickered. A shadow crossed her face—brief but unmistakable.

Michael noticed. “Love? What is it?”

The spoon in her hand trembled as tears welled up.

“It’s been eight years, Michael,” she whispered. “Eight years of waiting, hoping, crying, sowing seeds, praying... I give to the poor, I feed the orphans, I fast... but nothing changes. My womb is still empty.”

Michael left his chair and knelt beside her.

“Look at me,” he said, cupping her face. “Our own will come. One day, this house will be filled with giggles and pitter-patter feet. We’ll have baby food stains on the wall and toys scattered on the floor. I see it. I believe it. But we must wait—for God’s time, not ours.”

She nodded, but the ache didn’t fade.

He kissed her forehead gently, then stood. “Come.”

He took her hand and led her to their bedroom. The rain had softened into a misty drizzle, the world outside blurred and quiet.

As they lay together, he kissed her again—slowly, reverently, as if reminding her that she was still his home, still his miracle. His hands traced her body, rediscovering her like an artist inspired anew. Each touch was a whisper of love, each kiss a promise.

“I’m not in the mood,” she murmured, trying to pull away.

“That’s why I’m here—to bring you back into it,” he said softly.

And somehow, he did.

Their bodies moved with rhythm, not of lust, but of unity. Of healing. As if this moment could carry away the sorrow. As if hope could be made, even before life was.

Afterward, as they lay entangled in sheets and silence, Sandra rose to wash up. Michael caught her wrist gently.

“Where are you going?” he said. “The safest place you could be tonight is in my arms.”

She smiled—this time, deeply.

Facing him, she placed her palm against his cheek. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Micheal asked raising eyebrows

“For reminding me that even in waiting, love still lives here.”

He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her soft lips. “We may not have a child yet, but we have each other. And that’s more than enough—for now. The universe hasn't forgotten us. It’s just working on something extraordinary.”

Outside, the rain had finally stopped. And inside their home, the sun was beginning to rise—one heartbeat at a time.