From the <New York Times <bestselling author of <Behold the Dreamers<, a captivating novel about love lost&mdash;and love found

<What if I&rsquo;d never gotten into that car? What if I&rsquo;d pulled out of the driveway five minutes earlier, or ten minutes later?<

Three years ago, Wolo&rsquo;s pregnant wife was killed in a tragic car accident. In an instant, the great love of his life was gone, and so was their beautiful future: the twins they were expecting, the PhD she was on the cusp of finishing, and the house they&rsquo;d just bought in New Jersey. In the face of a loss that seemed insurmountable, Wolo has slowly rebuilt a semblance of a life: he goes to work, hangs out with a small circle of friends, and fends off the matchmaking efforts of the older women in his family. The grief that dogged him has, with time, become a little gentler.

Until a letter arrives one day, unbidden, threatening to upend his life once again. It is from Victoria, the woman who was behind the wheel that terrible day. Wolo&rsquo;s pastor tells him the letter is the work of the devil; his mother expressly forbids him from making further mention of it; his father&rsquo;s second wife calls, from Cameroon, to tell him to destroy it. But Wolo ponders it for days, and ultimately agrees to meet with the woman who killed his wife. When he does, the compassion and deep remorse of the woman affects him in ways he had never imagined, and he begins to wonder if the long road to healing can be shared.&nbsp;&nbsp;

What do we owe to those who have hurt us? Are we defined by our worst moments and our deepest regrets? &nbsp;And, more than anything, can forgiveness ease our suffering? Moving and full of life, <Every Story is a Love Story <charts the uneven path from heartbreak to hope.

Autorentext

Imbolo Mbue

Klappentext

From the New York Times bestselling author of Behold the Dreamers, a captivating novel about love lost—and the weight of regret

What if I’d never gotten into that car? What if I’d pulled out of the driveway five minutes earlier, or ten minutes later?

Three years ago, Wolo’s wife was killed in a tragic car accident. In an instant, the great love of his life was gone, and so was their beautiful future. In the face of a loss that seemed insurmountable, Wolo has slowly rebuilt a semblance of a life: he goes to work, hangs out with a small circle of friends, and fends off the matchmaking efforts of the older women in his family. The grief that dogged him has, with time, become a little gentler.

Until a letter arrives one day, unbidden, threatening to upend his life once again. It is from Victoria, the woman who was behind the wheel that terrible day. Wolo’s family pastor tells him the letter is the work of the devil; his mother expressly forbids him from making further mention of it; his father’s second wife calls, from Cameroon, to tell him to destroy it. But Wolo ponders it for days, and ultimately agrees to meet with the woman who killed his wife. When he does, the compassion and deep remorse of the woman affects him in ways he had never imagined, and he begins to wonder if the long road to healing can be shared.  

What do we owe to those who have hurt us? Are we defined by our worst moments and our deepest regrets?  And, more than anything, can forgiveness ease our suffering? Moving and full of life, Every Story Is a Love Story charts the uneven path from heartbreak to healing.

Leseprobe
**| Chapter One |
**
Someday I’ll forgive myself. Everyone says so. They say I can’t live with this guilt forever, that no one deserves to live with this level of regret. The past is gone, long gone, I must free myself of it. And I will free myself of it, they say, because time heals; the sun will surely rise no matter how long and cold the night. I’m grateful to them for saying it, but I doubt it’ll happen; I’m just not convinced I’ll ever stop asking myself questions that begin with “what if.” What if I’d never gotten into that car? What if I’d pulled out of the driveway five minutes earlier, or ten minutes later? What if I’d decided to skip the gym that morning? Why didn’t I just sleep in? Such thoughts and wonderings, they’re endless. I try to wrestle my mind away from them, but too often I fail and let myself ponder. What would I give to return to that place and undo it all.

In the days and weeks after the accident, when I was in the worst darkness I’ve ever fallen into, everyone from my father and brother to my friends told me to show myself compassion, to not forget that I’m a good person. My former therapist said that the kindest thing I could do was to remember that one act cannot define anyone, that what happened that day will never define me. Perhaps, but that doesn’t change the fact that I did what I did and it can never be undone—­that is what makes it so hard for me to forgive myself. I can’t change the past and that fills me with such remorse. Slowly, I’m beginning to accept that the act of forgiving oneself is an impossibility for all but the most liberated of souls, and me, I’m no liberated soul, much as I yearn to be.

Why am I writing you this letter, then, if there’s little chance I’ll ever forgive myself? It’s possible you won’t even read this, but I’m writing it either way because I need to. My new therapist discouraged me from contacting you. He said I still have a lot more healing to do before I should consider meeting you. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since I met Shiraz. I imagine Shiraz told you everything? He was so kind to me, far more than I deserved that day.

I couldn’t sleep the night after I met him, I knew I had to write to you, there’s so much I wanted to say to you directly, so I started this letter. This is the seventh or eighth draft of it, it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever written. If you end up getting this and reading it, I hope you won’t be mad at Shiraz for bringing it to you, it’s all completely my fault, everything that has led us to this moment is my fault, and for that I will be eternally sorry.

For three years I’ve been dreaming of meeting you.

Actually, I’ve been having nightmares about meeting you. In most of the dreams, you’re about to kill me. We’re in some awful-­looking place and I’m on my knees, or there are walls and I can’t escape. You have a gun, and I can tell I’m about to get my punishment. I never see your face, but I know that if there’s one person on this earth who would want to watch me suffer and die, it would be you. I’ve never liked the word hate, not since I was a child, because my father discouraged us from using it at home. It’s too strong a word, he would say, use something lighter. Now, sadly, I understand why the word exists—­who wouldn’t hate me in your position?

I have no right to ask anything of you, but if you’re ever interested in meeting me, I’ll do everything possible to meet you wherever works best for you, whenever you’d like. I’m desperate for your forgiveness but asking for it in a letter doesn’t seem adequate, I very much wish to do so in person. I can’t imagine how hard meeting me will be for you, but I promise I’ll do my best to not make it any harder. I’ll make every effort to stay composed as I ask you if you could ever find it in your heart to forgive me. And if you tell me that you’ll never forgive me, I’ll completely understand.

You owe me nothing. I owe you everything.

I can’t bring back what you lost, so why wou…