Chapter 1
Jenna
"Honey, what do you mean you’re getting a divorce?" Mom whispers, her voice thick with disbelief.
The three of them are sitting at the dining table — Mom, Dad and my sister.
I woke to the sound of something downstairs. At first, I thought I’d imagined it. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. 5:45 a.m. Far too early for anyone to be properly awake.
I’m a light sleeper. Always have been. The sort of person who startles at the hum of the fridge or the creak of a floorboard. So it didn’t surprise me that I immediately went looking for my parents — some childish instinct for protection, perhaps.
But their bedroom was empty.
That’s when curiosity took over.
I crept down the staircase, careful to avoid the third step from the bottom — the one that always squeaks — and froze halfway when I saw them.
All three of them gathered at the dining table.
The overhead light cast a harsh glow across their faces. Stephanie sat rigidly, her hands clasped so tightly together that her knuckles were white. Mom leaned forward, eyes wide. Dad’s jaw was set in that familiar way it does when he’s trying to remain calm.
And then I heard it.
Divorce.
My sister — my composed, perfectly put-together sister — has just told our parents that she is divorcing her husband of three years.
The word feels foreign in our home. Heavy. Out of place.
I feel as though someone has yanked the rug from beneath my feet.
Everything I thought I understood about love and marriage has just been shaken loose.
How can they be breaking up? They were the perfect couple. They are the perfect couple.
Thomas adores Stephanie. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The way he looks at her is like she’s something rare and precious. The constant, subtle touches — his hand resting at the small of her back, fingers laced through hers, brushing stray strands of hair from her face.
They’ve always seemed solid. Unshakable.
I’m completely flabbergasted.
Mom presses a trembling hand to her mouth. "Stephanie… sweetheart… are you sure?"
"I’ve thought about it for months," Stephanie replies, her voice eerily steady. Too steady. "It’s over."
Dad exhales slowly. "What happened?"
There’s a pause.
And I realise, with a jolt, that I don’t actually know.
I don’t know when it started going wrong. I don’t know if there were arguments, distance, or secrets. I didn’t even know they were struggling.
How could I not know?
I back up the stairs quietly before they notice me and slip into my room. I crawl back into bed and pull the duvet up to my chin, as though that might shield me from the reality downstairs.
But sleep won’t come.
Divorce.
The word echoes over and over in my mind.
Thomas and Stephanie met in high school. He was the bookworm. She was the cheerleader. It sounded like something out of a clichéd American film — the unlikely pairing that no one expects to last.
Their schedules rarely aligned. She had practice; he had chess club, science competitions, and endless academic commitments. Yet somehow, they made it work.
Stephanie was completely smitten with him — much to the annoyance of half the boys in her grade.
When they started dating, I was in grade 8, and they were in grade 11. Even at fourteen, I could see how hard the other students made it for them. People expected her to date one of the football boys. That was how the story was supposed to go — cheerleader and athlete.
But she chose Thomas.
And he chose her.
They survived school. They survived university. They survived distance, first jobs and the awkward transition into adulthood.
And now this.
I stare at the ceiling until the clock reads 9:13 a.m.
I hate the thought of it all falling apart.
If their love couldn’t last, what hope is there for anyone else?
What hope is there for me?
I need to speak to her.
But I’m not sure I’m ready to hear the answer.
Asher
My head is pounding.
It feels like there’s a drumline performing directly behind my eyes, and my brothers are blissfully unaware as they mess about around me.
We’re at my eldest brother Mickey’s house for my niece Tara’s second birthday. It’s a princess-themed party.
Which is how I’ve ended up with glitter in my hair, a plastic tiara perched on my head, and my toenails painted a violently bright shade of pink — the same fate suffered by all four of my brothers.
Tara insists we are her royal guards.
Currently, I feel more like a casualty.
When these headaches first started, I went straight to my General Practitioner. I was convinced it was something catastrophic — a tumour, perhaps. Something life-altering.
Thankfully, it wasn’t.
The doctor handed me a neat little list: stress, anxiety, lack of sleep.
I don’t consider myself particularly stressed. I’m not naturally anxious. And while I could probably benefit from more sleep, I doubt that’s the root cause.
Mom thinks I need to slow down at work. Stop taking on every responsibility thrown my way.
But I don’t think the problem lives in the office.
I just can’t quite identify what it is.
I turn twenty-eight in August, and lately I’ve had this persistent, uncomfortable feeling that my life has stalled.
Worse than that — I feel alone.
All my brothers are settled.
Mickey is married with a toddler and another baby on the way. Daniel is engaged. Luke is in a serious relationship and is even hoping to propose soon. Even Ethan, the baby of the family, appears to have a girlfriend now.
And then there’s me.
The permanent fifth wheel.
They invite me out with their partners, of course. They’re kind about it. But I see the looks they exchange when conversations drift into shared domestic plans and inside jokes I’m not part of.
I don’t want to be included out of pity.
And the thing is — I don’t just want a girlfriend.
I want a soul mate.
A partner.
Something solid and lasting.
I want someone to come home to at the end of the day. Someone I can talk to about work frustrations and family drama. Someone who challenges me when I’m wrong and supports me when I’m right.
I want that ease — the kind where you can drop every pretence and just be yourself.
No performance. No impressing.
Just real.
Sometimes I wonder if perhaps it simply isn’t meant for me.
And that thought stings more than I care to admit.
I’ve seen what rushing into something looks like. A few of my friends married women who were more interested in their bank accounts than their hearts. It never ends well.
I don’t want to be chosen for what I can provide.
I want to be chosen for who I am.
Tara runs past me in a whirl of pink tulle, shrieking with laughter as Ethan chases her around the garden, pretending to be a dragon. Balloons bob against the fence. Fairy lights sway gently in the breeze. Relatives balance paper plates of cake and plastic cups of squash.
It should feel joyful.
Instead, there’s a dull ache in my chest that mirrors the one in my head.
I am happy for my brothers. Truly.
But watching them build lives with someone beside them only highlights the empty space next to me.
Mickey appears at my side, handing me a bottle of water.
"You look rough," he says bluntly.
"Cheers."
"Headache again?"
"Yeah."
He studies me for a moment, his expression softening.
"You sure you’re alright?"
I consider brushing him off. I almost do. But something in his tone makes me hesitate.
"I’m fine," I say eventually. "Just tired."
He doesn’t look convinced.
"You’ll find someone, Ash," he says quietly, as though he’s been inside my head. "You’re the most solid bloke I know. When it happens, it’ll be right."
When it happens.
If it happens.
I manage a small smile. "You practising speeches already? Is that for Tara’s eighteenth?"
He laughs and claps me on the shoulder before walking back to his wife.
I watch him slip an arm around her waist automatically. She leans into him without thinking.
Effortless.
Natural.
That’s what I want.
Not fireworks. Not drama.
Just something steady.
Something that feels like home.
Across the garden, Tara throws her arms up and demands to be picked up. Mickey swoops her into the air, his wife laughing beside him.
And for a brief moment, I allow myself to imagine what that might feel like.
A woman standing next to me.
A child running towards me.
Someone looking at me the way my sisters-in-law look at my brothers — with certainty.
The ache in my chest deepens.
Maybe the doctor was right.
Maybe it isn’t stress or sleep.
Maybe it’s longing.
And maybe that’s the kind of pain no prescription can fix.
