The Bad Night

The NYE I lost it all.

A year ago today, at 11:30pm on New Year’s Eve, my life burned down. It took less than a minute.

It’s taken me a long time to write about that night, the night my marriage ended. I’ve thrown out a dozen drafts, until yesterday, when I finally figured out what I was doing wrong. I was writing a story about me.

But this story is about my sister.

My sister, who stayed on the phone with me all night. My sister, who calmly talked me down, even when she herself was terrified and reeling. My sister, who—from eight thousand miles away—got me to drink a glass of water.

My sister, who, over the course of the next week, coordinated with my friends to ensure I was never alone. My sister, who helped me get a plane ticket, and texted me every hour on the day to make sure I got on it. My sister, whose arms I fell into in my parents’ hallway, when I finally felt safe enough to come apart.

I made a lot of choices that night. I made the choice to look at his phone. I made the choice to scream about it. I made the choice to throw him out of the house, to look him dead in the eyes and rip our 2025 calendar clean off the wall. I made the choice to take off my wedding ring. And if I’m being honest, I made the choice right then to never put it back on, even if it took my heart a few months to catch up.

That night was filled with choices, but I believe there was only one that truly changed the trajectory of my life. It was the choice I made to text my sister.

In the dark backseat of our camper van, as my entire world went up in flames and Husband drove us home for the last time—I was sane just long enough to send one short message: Sissy, in fifteen minutes, I’m going to need you like I’ve never needed you before.

That single text would be the driving force for all of what was to come.

Okay. Okay, she said. I’m here.

And sure enough, at 11:45pm, when Husband was gone and I was breaking and everything was all fucked up and I was so, so scared and confused and wanted to die—my sister picked up the phone on the very first ring.

We spoke for over an hour. I don’t remember much of it. I don’t remember telling her what happened, but she understood. My marriage was over, and I was pretty sure it was going to kill me. I was leaving South Africa. I couldn’t stay. My dog, my friends, my everything, gone.

I remember the fireworks going off on the beach at midnight. I could hear them from where I lay on the floor of my bedroom—our bedroom. I remember wishing my sister a happy new year and laughing at the absurdity of it. I remember my laugh didn’t sound like my own.

The rest of the call was a blur of screaming, crying, and silence on both ends. But I do remember one thing she said, because it imprinted on my heart. I can hear her voice even now.

Come help me raise the girls.

When nothing else made sense, when I had no idea where I would go, or what I would do, or how I would survive, when the terrible chasm of starting over was yawning open before me, I had this: I would help my sister raise her babies.

It got me off the floor. It got me to the sink, and to a glass of water. It got me through the night, and the next, and the next. It got me on a plane. It got me home, to my real home: by her side.

For the next month, I barely left my sister’s bed. She laid out her own pajamas for me to wear. She set out a gift box of toiletries and cozy socks and fancy creams. She started the shower for me when I could barely stand. She held my hand every night as I cried silently into her tempur-pedic pillows. Her incredibly loving husband slept on an air mattress for weeks, so that I didn’t have to leave her side, even in sleep.

We sat on her couch and listened to Taylor Swift. We picked up the girls from school. We cooked dinner. We played Mancala. We did face masks, and foot peels, and kiddie crafts. We drank wine and talked about the future. And when the panic attacks came, she made me tea in the microwave.

And somewhere in there, between the dress-ups and the breakdowns, I began to laugh again. Yes, January was the worst month of my life, but it was also the month I laughed the most, because I was with my sister. It felt like a miracle. It felt like the point of everything.

Divorce is so rarely a two-person phenomenon. It is not neat and contained. It leaks into families, friend groups, communities. No one is untouched by it.

And that night? The night I lost it all? I know now that night wasn’t about me and Husband. That night was about two sisters, hands held across oceans, surviving life’s curveballs as one unbreakable unit. I’m starting to realize our sisters are the great loves of our lives.

Come help me raise the girls. She couldn’t know then, what a lifeline that would be. It was a purpose that kept me breathing. I had to stay alive, for the girls. I had to see this night through, for the girls. The girls she so unselfishly shares with me. The girls she lets me pretend are my own. It is a gift, every day—the way she allows me to love them.

And for all the months to come, any time I wavered on my decision to leave my marriage—when the fear got to be too much and I just wanted everything back to normal—I thought about them, and the kind of lives I hope they’ll have. I’d be brave for them. If not for me, then for them. I’d unmake myself, to show them what is possible.

My sister saved my life that night. She’d save it again, over and over, in the months that followed. She is still saving it today.

So as we move into a new year, think about who you’d call tonight, if your world ended. Cherish that person. If you do nothing else this year, look after that relationship.

Tell them you love them, help them however you can, spend time with them. Hug them too tight.

And when they call? Pick up. It might be pretty important.