10 Year Gap Novels & Stories

Mom and Dad have been divorced for ten years. One day, I come across a discussion thread. "Are all children of divorce having it hard?" I join the discussion. "Not always. Personally, I'm living pretty decently. After my parents' divorce, my sister and I were separated—one of us went to live with our paternal grandparents, and the other with our maternal grandparents. "For the last ten years, my parents have visited me once a year. Although they usually only stay for a few days, I can tell that they still love me." Within a minute, someone replies to my comment. "Girl, are you sure? My parents are divorced as well, but they can't bear to leave me at all. I've been with them since I wa

I nearly pointed out how he was still doing the same things till now, but I stopped myself and blurted out the next question. "What do you want to achieve in five years?" It was a twisted version of the usual 'where do you see yourself in that amount of years' and while I thought about my response, Cole launched into a long talk about spreading his business into Africa and Asia. He also said something about taking a gap year to travel around the world, and make more investments but there was nothing about marriage or kids. Maybe he was not into family goals, or he did not just want to share.

"It's actually why I am here in the first place. There are two years of my life that I just can't remember. It's like there's a void in my memory from when I was nineteen to twenty-one years old. My family told me that I was in a coma and didn't talk about it much, and every time I tried to bring it up, they changed the subject or gave vague answers. It feels like there's something important that I'm missing, and I know for sure that I wasn't in a coma. I can just feel it." A crinkle appeared between her eyes as she studied me, "Memory gaps, especially from such a significant period in your life, can be unsettling and often indicate experiences that were too difficult to process at the time.

The tenth year was the edge. He wrote in the journal: January of the tenth year. Don said: the inside account can see itself from the threshold. The tenth year is the threshold. Not outside — the outside is no longer available. But from the edge of the inside, looking back at the nine years that have become the inside we are in. The threshold seeing. The accumulated inside from the position of the tenth year's looking.

He forgot about me. I love him so much it hurts. It really hurts in here. There are some who were away from their partners for more than ten years and still got back together. I always watched it in movies but in movies, it never felt like it hurts them this bad and it’s only been three years. Only three years ?!! Those three years are like thirty years for me, it was like time slowed down a lot after he left. He never replied to my text and after that day ? his number became nonexistent.

"She's an adult, and so are you. So if you really want to take things to the next level." "Okay", I held up my palms, "first, I met her one week ago. There's nothing going on. Second, she didn't show the slightest interest in me that way. Also, the age gap is ten years, mom. Ten years". 7 "Your dad and I are seven years apart", she said, "and sometimes I wonder when he's going to grow up. Most men are so slow to mature." 8 "Mom." I groaned, and looked at dad with pleading eyes. He put an arm around mom's shoulders and kissed her temple.

Emerald sat on a white couch alone with her father Wade while the kids were still having dessert with Petra’s helping hands. She tried to avoid her father’s gaze. It had been five freaking years since she last saw him. On the day she had screamed and poured out her mind, letting her dad know how she hated being raised behind those large walls with no friends, no outing and worst of all, being homeschooled. “I’m glad you finally came to your senses...now all you need to do is divorce him...err, what’s his name again?” Mr. Wade asked after listening to Emerald’s part of the story.

And now, she is coming back? "What?" It was all I could manage. “She’s returning," he said simply. Then, before I could demand answers, the line went dead. I sat there, gripping the phone like it was the only thing holding me upright. My pulse roared in my ears. Ten years. Ten years of nothing. No calls, no letters, no whispers of where she’d gone. Just my mother’s quiet sadness of how she hated her, our father’s stiff silence, and the unspoken rule that we didn’t talk about her.

Stanley Cup Final. Ten Years Later. CAL I've been hitting Ethan Locke for ten years. Not always legally, not always cleanly. Sometimes only with my eyes, sometimes with words, mostly with the full, undeniable weight of my massive body driving him into the boards. Ten years of crossing ice, a decade of wanting – needing – to leave a mark that he can’t just get up and skate away from. Ten years ago, I wanted to hit him because he mocked me, now I hit him because it’s the only language loud enough to fucking reach him.

Then back again. Comparing. Checking. Verifying. The room waited. Finally she looked up. "The first confirmed image." My stomach tightened. "What about it?" Mara pointed toward the date beneath Arthur's notation. Then toward another entry several pages later. The gap between them was tiny. Only three weeks. Three weeks between locating Site Ten and beginning what appeared to be years of investigations. Years. Obsessive years. Protective years. Fearful years. Mara looked around the room and then quietly said the one thing none of us had considered.