When I look back now, I can’t help but laugh — not because it was funny, but because time has this strange way of turning our pain into a story worth telling.

It all started one December, four years ago. I, Martin, went to my father’s house with a heavy heart and a decision that felt final. I wanted a divorce.

It wasn’t a sudden impulse. My wife and I had been through months of tension, countless arguments, long nights spent back-to-back in bed pretending to sleep. Love had turned into irritation, irritation into silence, and silence into anger. We were done.

When I told my father, he didn’t even flinch. The old man just looked up, smiled, and said,

“You want to divorce your wife in December? Are you trying to dodge Christmas expenses?”

That was my dad for you. No matter the storm, he’d find a way to turn it into a drizzle. I was expecting sympathy, maybe some advice — but not a joke.

He continued, “When I was your age, I also thought of leaving your mother in December. Then I realized it was just the stress of buying new clothes, food, and gifts. Don’t worry, son — stay angry until Christmas is over, then leave in January.”

I didn’t laugh. He did — loudly. Then, in a calmer voice, he said,

“Go home, Martin. Think again. Come back after the new year if you still feel this way.”

But I didn’t wait that long. A week later, I returned. “It’s done,” I said. “My wife already told her parents. We’re finished.”

My dad sighed and asked for her number. When she picked up, I could hear her voice trembling through the phone as she explained our situation: the fights, the suspicions, the disrespect, the endless back-and-forth.

He listened quietly and then said to her, “My daughter, these are not reasons to end a marriage. Every home has thunder before peace. Spend Christmas together, and let’s talk about divorce next year.”

It seemed like the universe was conspiring against our separation, because while he was on the phone, her father called me too. His message? The same thing:

“You are a man, Martin. Don’t let minor storms sink your ship. Stay until the new year.”

I hung up, furious. When I got home, my wife was sitting in the living room. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but her mouth was sharper than ever.

“This marriage must be cursed,” she said, “but wherever the curse came from, I’ll go there myself and break it.”

I snapped back immediately, “You don’t need to go anywhere. You’re the curse yourself — the one I’ve been carrying for four years!”

That night, we didn’t speak again. But we stayed under the same roof because both families insisted. I don’t know if it was love, pride, or sheer exhaustion, but somehow, we decided to endure each other until Christmas was over.

From that day, our home turned into a silent battlefield.

She cooked but didn’t give me any. I would sneak into the kitchen to feed our son and steal small portions for myself, pretending not to notice when she glared. Sometimes, I’d wait until she was asleep, sneak into the pot, and then re-shape the stew so it looked untouched.

When I left money for groceries, she would leave it exactly where I put it, like it was poisoned. Every word, every gesture carried the weight of our anger.

Then came my small acts of revenge — petty, ridiculous, but satisfying at the time. One day, she cooked a full meal and kept it in the fridge. The next morning, she woke up to find everything spoiled. I had turned the fridge off.

When she confronted me, I shrugged. “My fridge, my rules.”

Another night, I switched off the power and went to bed early. “No light today,” I said. “I paid the bill; I decide when we enjoy electricity.”

She moved to the sofa, and I moved to the bed. The next day, she came home with a cheap student mattress and spread it beside the bed. “Now you can have your throne alone,” she said coldly.

By the time New Year’s Eve came, we had divided the house like a mini nation — her side and mine. The only place we still fought over was the bedroom.

When the fireworks went off that midnight, we didn’t celebrate. I was sitting outside staring at the dark sky when I heard her whisper from the doorway,

“December will soon be over, and we’ll see.”

I didn’t know what she meant. But her tone felt strange — softer, almost teasing.

The first week of January, something shifted. She fixed a leaking pipe in the bathroom. Then she hired a mason to repair the broken manhole. “Why is she doing all this?” I thought. “Is she not planning to leave?”

Then one evening, while fanning herself with a piece of cardboard, she asked casually,

“So… when are you buying that air conditioner you promised? It’s getting hot.

I looked at her and laughed bitterly. “You can go and sleep in the ocean if you’re hot.”

She smiled mysteriously and walked away.

I didn’t know it then, but that smile held a secret — one that would change everything.

A few weeks later, she sat me down and said, almost shyly,

“Martin, I’m pregnant. It must have happened in November.”

For a moment, my mind went blank. We hadn’t exactly been… loving. Our last time together had been after an argument — the kind that leaves words unsaid but hearts still burning.

She continued, “Don’t worry. I’m not staying because of this. I’ll give birth first, then leave.”

 

 

She smiled again — that same smile from before. But this time, it wasn’t teasing. It was calm. Peaceful.

And something inside me softened.

I started doing small things for her — buying fruits, helping with chores, driving her to appointments. I told myself I was doing it for the baby, but deep down, I knew better. I missed her.

By February, our fights had become conversations. By March, those conversations turned into laughter. My father called and said,

“Martin, I hear there’s a new baby coming. So what happened to that divorce?”

I laughed. “Ah, Dad, you were right. She’s a witch. She bewitched me back into love.”

He laughed so hard I could almost see the tears on his face through the phone.

 

 

When our daughter was born, the first cry she let out seemed to erase all the bitterness we had carried. We both cried that day — not from pain, but relief. It was as if life had given us a second chance wrapped in the form of a tiny human being.

I often think back to that December and realize how close we came to destroying something beautiful. We let pride and anger blind us to the love that was still there — buried under hurt, but alive nonetheless.

Now, four years later, our house is louder than ever — three kids, endless laughter, and the occasional fight that ends with, “Remember December?”

Whenever my wife brings it up, she says, “If I had left, I would have regretted it.” And I always reply, “If you had left, I would have regretted it too — but pride wouldn’t have let me say it.”

Sometimes, when people ask me the secret to surviving marriage, I say,

“Find a father who laughs at your problems before they swallow you.”

Because truly, if my dad hadn’t turned my drama into a joke, I might not be here telling this story.

In the end, I’ve learned that time has a way of humbling every emotion. Anger fades, pain softens, and pride loses its power. Give time some time — and even broken things can find their shape again.

We only had one December that nearly tore us apart, but from that same December, we found something worth keeping forever:
A love that survived laughter, fights, silence… and one miraculous pregnancy that changed everything.