Novel & Cerita I Wrote A Book About Us

Maybe her writing Nick a hundred page letter about why he should divorce me. "Oh," I said after seeing that it was just a book on the inside of the large box. I looked at the cover. "How to raise kids?" I read. "Hmm, yeah. Anyway." Nick took it from my hand to place it inside the grill. "Look, it's flammable." Nobody said anything. Nick raised his almost empty beer bottle. "Here's to a happy life, a healthy family and a brighter future." He said. I raised my bottle of apple juice. ’’Here’s to that.’’

It was the best kind of job for me, I loved it and I got paid weekly, enough to eat, after my first paycheck, I had spent a full week starving, I tried to ask for my money beforehand but my boss who’s the meanest person ever, said no. How could such a cold hearted person be responsible for one of the best places in the world! There was no sleeping with a storm outside, I was up most of the night, I was up early and ready to go to work, I was slipping but pushed it down as I got out of her car and quickly walked over to the bookstore. I walked over to the children's books area, I was thankful no one was around as I sat down in a beanbag after grabbing a few books to read.

Dear Readers, As I sit down to write these words, my heart is overflowing with gratitude. This book — my very first — is more than just a story. It is a piece of my soul, carved out over years of unexpected challenges, personal storms, and quiet triumphs. There were moments when life felt too heavy, when writing seemed impossible, and yet, somehow, I kept returning to these pages.

Alhamdulillah, I was able to. I am on my way to meet Usman for dinner; I prayed Isha before leaving the house. He has been busy since he came into town. I park my car and walk into the restaurant. I see him sitting with a few papers in front of him. I walk over to join him. “I thought we came to eat, not for you to work,” I say once I take my seat. “Is that how you should greet your elder brother?” Usman says, lifting his head from the papers in front of him.

And I understand that I need to write about it. I set aside the grant proposals and I open a new document on my computer. I stare at the blank page for a long time. I think about what I want to say. I think about what would matter to people who are in the middle of their own difficult journeys. I think about what I wish someone had told me when I was just starting this work. I start typing. "This is a book about what comes after. Not what comes after surviving. That's the first book. This is what comes after you've survived and healed and built something from the healing. This is what it looks like to exist in the life you've earned through decades of work."

The thread had been removed from the community, but many had sent me private messages. Some offered words of comfort, some scolded Luke, and the other asked me how I was doing. I replied to none of them. I only left my comment on a certain post that brought everything out in the open. 'The person I failed most was myself. My love for my husband blinded me, and I lost who I was. But now, I've brought her back.' I eventually put my phone away and brought my luggage to the airport security checkpoint. Ahead of me, freedom was waiting.

And now, Maya was tangled in their pages. “I don’t want to be part of their story,” Maya whispered. Kennedy looked at her. “Then write your own.”

--- By my next class, I’d almost convinced myself I wouldn’t think about him again. “Now, class,” Mr. Freeman said, adjusting his glasses in that overly precise teacher-way he always did, “next week we’ll begin discussing a novel. I expect you all to read it in advance. I’ve printed the details here, and I want an essay from each of you by Monday.” I took the paper from his hand and almost smiled. I’d read this book at least five times before. The perks of secretly being an English nerd. Easy A. I didn’t see Damon for the rest of the school day. Probably off training for the tournament. Which was fine by me.

You in? I knew what the answer should be. I also knew I wouldn’t give it. I typed back without rereading it. ME: Yeah. I’m in. Distance hadn’t made me safer. It had just made me reckless enough to stop pretending I was.

Forever. --- One night, sitting on the porch, I said: "We should write a book." Louis laughed. "About what?" "About us. About everything. The kids could read it someday. Know where they came from." "You want to tell the world our secrets?" "Not the world. Just them. Our family." He thought about it. Nodded slowly. "Okay. Let's do it." So we started writing. Together. Him remembering details I forgot. Me adding the feelings he missed.