Emmaline Archer hasn't always made the best decisions, but this time when her misplaced trust lands her in the back of a police cruiser, her mother has had enough. Sending her across country to live with her estranged father, Emmaline just wants to keep her head low until her 18th birthday.
But the folks she meets in Oakridge seem to have a different plan in mind for her
Emmaline Archer hasn't always made the best decisions, but this time when her misplaced trust lands her in the back of a police cruiser, her mother has had enough. Sending her across country to live with her estranged father, Emmaline just wants to keep her head low until her 18th birthday.
But the folks she meets in Oakridge seem to have a different plan in mind for her
I was too young to remember my parents splitting up. Too young to have made those lasting childhood memories you need to create attachments to older relatives. Too young to remember why they fell apart. Too young to remember my father packing his bags and moving halfway across the country to create a new life that I wasn't part of.
But I wasn’t too young to remember the rest. I remember my mom’s endless parade of boyfriends coming in and out like they were actors in a play I didn’t get to star in. I remember my older brother spiraling into addiction, and my younger brother—well, I remember him. The memories aren’t neat or pretty. They don’t fit into any easy narrative, but they’re there. My whole life a series of small events culminating in me standing in front of a single story brick house while a man who maybe looks a little like me rambles about not knowing what colours I like so he left the walls of my room white for now but he picked out a bedspread he hoped I would like but if I didn't it was fine and he would get me something else and I really want to scream at him to shut up so I can think but I know I'm on thin ice in life already so I don't say anything.
Just like I haven't for the past 6 months.
If you don't say anything, no one can use your words against you.
He's walking up to the door now and I didn't really absorb much of what he'd said, but I follow him anyway, because what else am I going to do? Mentally, I'm checked out already. If I can just get through this year, I'll be free and clear. My probation only lasts until I'm 18. 11 months to go.
The inside of the house is as bland as the outside, which I guess makes sense considering how my mom had always described him. And looking at him, you'd get it. He's only a couple inches taller than me, with the look of a man who made the New Year's resolution every year to go to the gym more but let his membership lapse after a couple months. The only bit of him that feels familiar to me is his hair. He's got it cropped short, but it's the same mousy brown as mine and, when we were little and mom still hoped he'd come back, she would tell us it was thick and wavy like a beautiful lions mane. I guess I got that from him, but the rest of me looks like her.
He leads me down a narrow hallway that could definitely benefit from a brighter bulb. He opens a door at the end of the hall to reveal a room as dull as the rest of the house. A desk is tucked against one corner and a squat bookcase sits next to it. The closet doors are those kind with the slats that I think I've only really seen in TV shows and horror movies when a killer is coming and the protagonist needs somewhere to hide and I didn't know people actually have them in their houses. The bedspread he picked out is minty green. The only pop of colour in an otherwise white room. Another white room for me to feel trapped in. I feel a little like I'm going to be sick.
"Can I change the walls," I ask, my voice croaking a little from lack of use. Maybe I’m not a very good daughter, because that’s the first thing I’ve said to him since my plane landed.
He beams at me. "Of course! After lunch, let's swing by the hardware store and pick out some paint." He's too enthusiastic. I really can't deal with this kind of thing.
"And a mirror." I'm not vain, but I take care of my appearance, and I have the feeling whatever crappy mirror he has in the bathroom just isn't going to cut it. Mom used to say if I couldn't be smart, at least I should be pretty. In hindsight, it was a shitty thing to say to a kid.
I'm never going to be a model – too short for one thing – but I'm definitely pretty. Like my mom, I have light brown eyes and clear skin. I developed early as well which my mom called a blessing, and I called a fast lesson in learning just how disgusting people -old white men- could and would be at any given chance.
My phone chimes and the corner of my mouth twitches into a dry smile. Speak of the devil. It's a text from her asking if I've arrived and how I'm settling in, as though settling in is something that can be done in a matter of minutes. I put my phone back into my pocket without replying. She wants to ship me off to some small town in the middle of nowhere? Fine. But it goes both ways. If she wants to shut me out, I can do the same to her.
"Are you hungry, kiddo? I was thinking we could go down to Delia's for a bite. It's about lunch time," he says, looking at his watch. God. Calling him dad feels weird. Would it piss him off if I called him Craig? I'd rather call him that but I'm not sure I can get away with it.
"Who's Delia?" I ask instead.
He chuckles like I've just told a hilarious joke. "Not a person. Delia's is the best diner in town!" The only diner in town, probably, I think to myself. This place really is a nowhere town.
We'd taken only 3 streets to get to his house and one was literally called Main Street and, as he explained in the car, traveled the full length of the town and could be followed to the larger city about 20 minutes south. Great. Good info. Would be better if I had a car and could actually go to that city, but I don't have a license anymore. Part of the delightful court ordered punishment.
I'm not a bad kid. I've never intentionally broken any laws. I just trusted the wrong people and, when it all crashed down, I took the fall for them. Thankfully mom's new beau is loaded and not only posted bail for me, but he paid a top lawyer to get me the lowest possible sentence: 50 hours of community service and probation until my 18th birthday. Being told I'm banished from my home was just a bonus prize.
And if you think I'm being dramatic, I'm not. One of the conditions of her boyfriend posting bail was that I had to leave and not come back. She can't watch me going down the same path as my older brother, so instead of helping me, their solution is to ship me out so they literally can't see it happening.
That's fine. Like I said, I'm not a bad kid. Getting away from my bad influences should straighten me out, right? Somehow that doesn't seem likely. That's one of those tricky bits about making mistakes. It's easier to build bad habits than good ones, and lately my bad habits have far exceeded the good.
Craig is already back at the front door, putting his shoes back on, and I go to join him. He's got these black runners he doesn't need to loosen as he tugs them onto his feet. I wonder about the logic in loose runners. If you're going to wear runners you should be able to actually run in them.
I tug on my boots and feel a little like a hypocrite because even though they can lace on securely I really only keep them laced to my ankle and loop the laces twice around to keep them on my feet.
Outside, I go to get into the car but Craig shakes his head. "It's a short walk and you look like you could use some sun." I feel like he's making fun of me. He was with my mom for 10 years and she, just like me, could get a sunburn sitting indoors on a cloudy day.
I bite back a snippy reply and follow him anyway.
A Chance to Be Happy tackles complex themes of trauma, grief, and self-discovery through the perspective of a young woman struggling with mental illness and emotional wounds. The intent is admirable—and the themes are important—but unfortunately, the story’s execution falls short in several key areas.
Though marketed as New Adult, the tone, structure, and prose often feel more aligned with Young Adult. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it creates confusion—especially given the content. Amazon lists the book as appropriate for readers aged 16–18, but it includes references to suicide, suicidal ideation and planning, emotional and physical abuse (mostly off-screen), and substance use. These topics demand strong trigger warnings and careful handling, which the book doesn’t quite deliver.
The novel begins with a summary-heavy opening that reads more like memoir than fiction. The writing often struggles with tense inconsistencies, repetitive phrasing, awkward transitions, and formatting issues. Internal dialogue is unclear, and moments that should be emotionally impactful come across as emotionally flat or jarring. There are also minor punctuation and grammar errors that disrupt the reading experience.
Perhaps my biggest concern is the passivity of the protagonist. While her circumstances are heartbreaking, she rarely takes meaningful action for herself. Most of her growth seems to come through others intervening, and her personal transformation is vague at best. Supporting characters and backstory elements also feel inconsistent or underdeveloped—such as a brother mentioned only twice, a room that changes color mid-book, and contradictory details about her legal help.
There’s one poignant line that stood out to me: “The tree remembers what the axe forgets.” It’s a beautiful metaphor for trauma—but unfortunately, the book doesn’t do enough to explore that emotional truth.
With further revision, stronger editing, and clearer audience alignment, this could become a much more impactful story. As it stands, however, it reads like an early draft with good intentions that didn’t quite find its voice.