Every Story Is a Love Story

by Imbolo Mbue

Genres: General Fiction; Family Life; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

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

“Every Story Is a Love Story is a deeply moving, beautifully told novel about grief, regret, anger, forgiveness, and the insistent resilience of the human heart. Imbolo Mbue’s generosity on the page is breathtaking.”—Patrick Ryan, author of Buckeye

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.

Release date: October 6, 2026

Publisher: Random House

Print pages: 352

Sample

| 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 would you even want to meet with me? What good would meeting me do for you? I don’t know. I can’t say I’ll come with anything but a load of sadness. I can’t even say that I’m sure meeting you will help me much, but I must tell you to your face how sorry I am, how broken my heart still is for you, for your family, for all who suffered because of that day and continue to suffer because of it. My pain is nothing compared to yours, but in the most terrible way, our broken hearts will be forever linked. My therapist reminded me again last session that it was an accident. Accidents happen, he said. You didn’t intend to harm anyone; you didn’t set out that day to destroy anyone’s life. And yet, destroy I did. It hurts so much.

I wonder, often, how you’re doing. I’m not the most praying person, but every year, on the anniversary, I say a prayer for you. I pray that you’ve found a measure of peace, however small. I pray that you’ve found new sources of joy, even if it all greatly pales in comparison to the joy you once had. I pray, also, that your memories of that awful day and the days and weeks after are receding, and the ones of the happier days you had before the accident are now more dominant in your mind. I pray for you by name, because I may not know much about you, but I know your name. And I’ll never forget her name. Such a beautiful name. I’ve never dared to google either one of you, though I’m curious about what her name means and who she was besides the name and the face that the media reported. I imagine all the wonderful things she surely was, and that alone is enough to multiply my sorrow.

Will I feel better if you tell me that you’re doing much better than I think you might be? Gosh, yes. I’ll be beside myself with gratitude if I find out that you and your loved ones are making a recovery, but I’m not asking for a meeting to assuage my guilt. I’m not asking to meet so I can convince myself that despite my action everything will be all right for you and your family. Everything will never be all right. We’ll never be all right. But maybe we’ll find some kind of healing if we meet? Maybe you offering me forgiveness will lighten each of our loads a little bit? Please know that if you decide not to meet me, I’ll hold nothing against you. I’ll tell myself that perhaps the time isn’t right for you. But if on any day you’re ready, my email address and phone number are at the top of this page. If you ever feel ready, name the place and time and I’ll be there.

With a broken heart,

Victoria Snow