Better Than Before
It had been two months since Mike walked away from the lucrative deal in Abuja — a deal that, by all rights, should have changed everything for him financially. Two months since Danika swallowed her pride and dared to ask for help — a small, trembling act that quietly reshaped the boundaries of their relationship. Two months since they both learned that love wasn't the absence of pain, but rather the presence of grace woven through the hardest moments.
This week, something felt different.
Not easier. Not solved.
Just… steadier.
On a breezy Thursday afternoon, the kind of day when the sun softened its edge with a gentle, teasing breeze, Danika stood outside her small shop. The street was alive with the usual sounds: the distant chatter of children playing, a hawker calling out fresh oranges, the occasional rumble of a motorcycle weaving through traffic. She held a broom in her hands, sweeping the cracked concrete in slow, rhythmic motions.
For the first time in what felt like forever, she hummed a tune — a soft melody that drifted from her lips, carried on the breeze. It was a song she hadn't heard since childhood, a lullaby her mother used to sing when the world felt too big, too loud. The tune connected her to a place inside herself she'd thought lost.
Her shop looked different to her today. Not just cleaner, but fuller. The shelves no longer held just a few sparse items, but a modest variety — handcrafted jewelry, fabric, a few beauty products her apprentice had sourced. Clients had become more consistent, no longer just strangers stopping by out of pity, but returning customers who smiled, chatted, and sometimes asked for advice.
Her apprentice, Titi, was a bright young woman with quick fingers and a sharper mind, slowly finding her place amid the chaos and beauty of the shop. Danika had begun to teach her not just the business, but the heart of it — the pride of creation, the value of patience.
And then there was her mother.
The relationship was still fragile, a delicate glass heart that could shatter with a wrong word or an uncomfortable silence.
But this week, the small gestures of peace came quietly.
A hot plate of jollof rice left in the fridge, wrapped carefully in cling film.
A wrapper folded neatly beside her bed, a whispered apology for the past.
And today, a note.
Pinned to the cracked mirror in her room — just three simple words written in her mother's shaky handwriting:
"You are stronger than your beginnings."
Danika froze.
Her mother had never been the type to leave notes. The woman rarely said "I love you," let alone wrote words of encouragement. For years, their relationship was woven with silence, with unspoken expectations, and grudging love.
But this?
This was different.
This was a seed planted in the soil of their fractured past.
She took a photo of the note and sent it to Mike.
Mike's phone buzzed with the message while he sat in a café with spotty Wi-Fi and the smell of freshly ground coffee beans heavy in the air. The café was crowded, full of students and freelancers tapping away at keyboards, but Mike found a quiet corner where he could focus.
He'd been working on his new client's website — a small but promising business venture. The code was complex and needed careful attention, but he kept Danika's message open beside his work, not as a distraction but as a steady reminder.
A reminder that love didn't end when things got tough. It adapted, stretched, and sometimes grew stronger in ways that only hardship could teach.
He typed back quickly:
"Frame it. That's your inheritance."
Later that evening, Mike sat back in his apartment, the dim light casting soft shadows on the walls. His mind wandered to Danika, wondering how her day had gone, how the note might have shifted something inside her.
He pulled out his phone again and sent her another message:
"Let's start a savings jar. For a shared dream."
Seconds later, Danika replied:
"How about we call it 'Better Than Before'?"
The words stuck with Mike.
Better than before.
It was not a grand promise.
Not an extravagant goal.
But it was something real.
Something they could build on.
Sunday came with the soft glow of late morning light streaming through the curtains. Mike and Danika planned a video call — a proper one. No rushing, no interruptions, no background noise from bustling streets or stray children.
Mike carefully chose his shirt — the one Danika had once complimented, though the collar was now a bit loose from wear. He ran a hand through his hair and adjusted the lighting in his room. The faint scent of his cologne lingered in the air, the same scent she always said reminded her of calm.
Danika, on the other side of the screen, wore the purple lip gloss Mike loved — the shade that made her smile just a little brighter, made her eyes sparkle just a little more.
They smiled when they saw each other, the distance between them shrinking in that moment.
The conversation that day didn't revolve around problems.
There were no discussions about money, rent, or setbacks.
Instead, they dreamed.
They talked about what they'd cook if they had a home together — the spicy stews Mike loved, the fragrant jollof rice Danika perfected.
What paint colors they'd choose for their future shop and office walls — soft creams, bold blues, a splash of vibrant red to remind them of passion.
How many kids they wanted — not as a demand, but as a hope, a quiet dream shared in whispered tones.
They laughed at their mismatched cooking skills.
They teased each other over imagined scenarios.
And they stared too long into their screens, as if willing the other closer.
When the call was almost over, the silence that settled between them wasn't awkward.
It was filled with unspoken promises.
Danika's voice broke it first.
"I'll see you soon."
Mike nodded, though she couldn't see it.
"Not just through a screen."
Later, Mike stared at his phone long after the call ended.
He thought about the hard months behind them — the uncertainty, the fights, the sacrifices.
But now?
Now there was a steady rhythm to their days.
A pulse of hope beneath the surface.
He realized that love was not just about the big gestures or grand declarations.
Sometimes, it was found in the smallest moments: a note on a mirror, a simple text, a shared dream whispered across miles.
Better than before.
Across town, Danika lay on her bed, the note still pinned to the mirror catching the soft moonlight.
She thought about how far she'd come.
About how the weight on her shoulders wasn't gone — but it felt lighter.
Because now, she wasn't carrying it alone.
She reached for her phone, fingers trembling, and typed:
"Better than before."
And sent it into the quiet night.