Homesick Nomad: Settling into an Untethered Life

 

Homesick Nomad: Settling into an Untethered Life 

By Brianna Madia

After finishing The Road to Tender Hearts on my drive home to Florida, I started Homesick Nomad: Settling into an Untethered Life by Brianna Madia. A round trip to my mom’s is about 20 hours, which usually means I can fit in two audiobooks. Brianna narrates this one herself, and listening to it felt like catching up with a friend.

I’ve followed Brianna and her adventurous, dog-filled life online for years…maybe close to ten. Because of social media, I thought I knew a lot about her story, but this book reveals the deeper layers behind what people see on the surface.

Homesick Nomad explores love, loss, identity, and what it means to remain true to yourself even when the world, and the internet, tries to tear you apart.

There’s a heaviness throughout the book, especially as Brianna navigates grief and the devastating impact of online bullying. But woven through that pain is resilience, growth, and moments of clarity that linger long after the chapter ends. Watching her confront her fears and slowly reclaim herself was deeply inspiring.

Seeing her journey come full circle, from heartbreak and divorce to finding love again, I personally felt inspired by her resilience to opening herself up to finding love again after all she had been through.

The book is packed with lessons about choosing the life that feels right for you, even when it doesn’t look like anyone else’s. One chapter that especially stood out to me focused on the choice not to have children. Why is that still something people judge so harshly? And for some people, it’s not even a choice. That part felt honest, vulnerable, and important.

I have a keychain that says, “Don’t let the bastards get you down,” and honestly, that sentiment fits this book perfectly. We get one life. Not one life approved by strangers. Just one life

Choose wisely. Live freely. Just live.

The online bullying Brianna endured was unbelievable. I was especially happy to hear about Selena, a woman who stepped in to help Brianna uncover the people behind the anonymous harassment and hold them accountable. Hearing that brought such a sense of justice and relief.

One quote that really stayed with me was:

“When someone wants to help you, it doesn’t always mean that they think you’re incapable. It might just mean that they love you.”

And maybe that’s the thread running through this entire story: that surviving isn’t just about enduring pain alone. It’s about finding the courage to keep choosing yourself and letting yourself be loved anyway.

 

The Road to Tender Hearts

 

The Road to Tender Hearts 

By Annie Hartnett

I was heading to Florida this past weekend to celebrate Mother’s Day early and three big birthdays, and I needed something that would travel well with me…something light on the surface but with enough depth to sit with me in the in-between moments. I had seen this book on several reviewers’ lists and well…the cover caught my eye.  It felt like the right kind of company for a long drive.

The story follows PJ Halliday, an aimless, lottery-winning man in fragile health who somehow ends up responsible for his dead brother’s grandchildren after a tragic accident. From there, things spiral in the most unpredictable, chaotic, and strangely tender directions. PJ, still half-lost in his own life and dependent on his ex-wife for nearly everything, suddenly finds himself traveling across the country with two grieving pre-teens, his equally drifting adult daughter, and a stolen car. His goal? To reconnect with his high school crush, Michelle. Of course, that’s only one of several increasingly strange objectives that emerge along the way.

What unfolds is a road trip in the truest sense…equal parts hijinks and heartbreak. There are stolen wax hands, motel detours, questionable decisions, run-ins with the law, and more narrow escapes than seems statistically possible. And yet, beneath the absurdity, Hartnett is constantly circling something much quieter and more vulnerable: the ache of grief, the awkwardness of found family, and the strange ways people keep moving forward when they don’t quite know how to heal.

I’ll be honest…I didn’t just smile during this book; I actually laughed out loud. More than once. That alone felt like a small miracle since most books that promise laugh out loud humor don’t quite deliver, for me.

But what surprised me most was how effectively the humor coexists with something heavier. It’s how these characters survive what they’re carrying.

And then there’s Pancakes…the cat who may or may not be an agent of death. It sounds like something that shouldn’t quite work, but somehow it does. At first it felt a little strange, but I gradually found myself settling into it. In the end, I was more charmed by the cat than anything else, though maybe that’s not so surprising if you know me well enough: I do tend to like my cats more than most people.

There were moments when the quirkiness tipped into excess for me…bordering on too much, occasionally veering into the kind of stylized chaos that feels almost deliberately staged. At times, I could absolutely see this as a Wes Anderson movie, all symmetry and eccentric heartbreak.

By the end, I realized the journey wasn’t really about reaching Michelle, or solving any of the more improbable mysteries along the way. It was about the way broken people accidentally assemble into something like a family, not because they fix each other, but because they keep showing up anyway…messy, uncertain, and still moving forward.

And maybe that’s what the book is really trying to say…not whether we can untangle our pasts, but whether we can learn to sit beside one another. Even if nothing is resolved. Even if the road is ridiculous. Even if the only thing we end up carrying home is the faint, unexpected feeling that tenderness was there all along, waiting for us to notice it.

 

Malibu Rising

 

Malibu Rising

By Taylor Jenkins Reid

A couple of weeks ago, I wandered into Goodwill…the kind of casual stop that somehow always feels fated. I made my usual beeline for the book section and walked out with five. One of them is already set aside as a gift.

This year, Vee and I decided to do something different for our birthdays: thrifted bundles. We built a secret Pinterest board together, filling it with bits of who we are…ideas, aesthetics, little clues. The only rule is that everything must be found, collected, or handmade. Treasures, really. It’s been the most meaningful and surprisingly joyful way I’ve ever put together a gift. Spoiler Vee...I found you a book! 

Among the stack I found that day was Malibu Rising by Taylor Jenkins Reid. As you know, I had finished Atmosphere, and I’d already loved The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo and Daisy Jones & The Six, so it felt like an easy yes.

“Our family histories are simply stories. They are myths we create about the people who came before us, in order to make sense of ourselves.”

Set along the Pacific Coast Highway, tucked between the mountain and the sea, Malibu Rising tells the story of the Riva family. On the surface, it’s all sunshine and salt air...beach houses, crashing waves, that golden Malibu glow. But underneath, there’s more going on: wealth gaps, the way Malibu’s identity has shifted over time, and the subtle impact of gentrification. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the homes themselves…from the original Riva house, full of memory and survival, to Nina’s stark, modern house on the coast. The contrast feels intentional. These spaces aren’t just settings; they’re reflections of history, of relationships, of what is built and what is lost.

The center of the novel belongs to the siblings: Nina, Jay, Hud, and Kit, whose loyalty to one another feels steady and earned. There’s something quietly striking in the way they’ve all had to grow up too fast, stepping into maturity while their parents remained suspended in their own immaturity. It’s a familiar kind of imbalance, and Reid captures it with clarity, if not always with subtlety.

That said, parts of the story do drift into slightly soap-opera territory. The backdrop of 1983 is vivid…Virginia Slims and Marlboros, Tab cans, Jeeps and Jaguars, Airstream caravans, Wayfarer sunglasses. Long sun-lightened hair, string bikinis, tanned skin. Crop tops and Daisy Dukes. Backyard parties that blur into excess…booze, cocaine, fleeting love affairs, and the kind of chaos that feels both glamorous and empty.  Rock stars, actors, athletes, models…it’s all there, orbiting Los Angeles in a way that feels true to the time, even if it’s a bit over the top at moments.

The story moves between two timelines: one that follows the hours leading up to Nina’s annual party, building tension as it goes, and another that traces the family’s past…particularly June Riva, a woman who loved deeply and paid for it. Her story, more than anything, carries the emotional weight of the book. She is the quiet center of it all: a young woman who believed in promises, endured abandonment, and still faced the world with resilience.

And then there’s Mick Riva…he showed up in Reid’s other books too. A famous singer, charming and careless, he moves through lives leaving damage in his wake. He’s less someone you try to understand and more someone you just must reckon with.

“Nina understood, maybe for the first time, that letting people love you and care for you is part of how you love and care for them.”

That line sticks. It’s one of the moments where the book sharpens into something more meaningful…where it moves beyond the spectacle and into truth.

Malibu Rising is good. But it certainly isn’t her best. It doesn’t quite reach the depth or emotional precision of her other work. And yet, there was something about it that stayed with me.

Maybe because it’s Malibu.

A place that has always felt like a dream just out of reach. My friend David and I used to talk about living there someday. I like to think he’s there now in some way…catching waves, laughing, exactly where he belongs. This book, for all its flaws, let me go back there for a bit. It gave me the coast, surfing, the light, the sense of possibility….and my memories of him.

For that, I really loved it.

The Answer is No

The Answer Is No 

By Fredrik Backman

It’s Friday, and the office feels unusually quiet with most of my coworkers out. I grabbed my earphones, thinking I’d listen to some music or maybe a short story to break up the silence. Without a second thought, I put on The Answer Is No...I mean, it’s Fredrik Backman, after all.

The book is supposed to be a hilarious short story, but I’ve kind of accepted that I’m just not the target audience for “laugh-out-loud” books. The ones everyone says are so funny usually don’t make me laugh at all. That said, even if the humor didn’t land for me, Backman’s observations about people definitely did.

The story follows Lucas, a guy in his early thirties who has built a very specific, very controlled life around three things: video games, Pad Thai with extra peanuts, and a glass of wine. He’s not just introverted…he’s intentionally designed his life to avoid people as much as possible. And honestly, he seems pretty content with that…until something small (like a frying pan) starts to throw everything off.

It’s a simple setup, but the story isn’t really about what happens…it’s more about who Lucas is. It feels less like a full narrative and more like a close-up look at a certain kind of personality. Someone who associates independence with safety. Someone who finds people exhausting instead of comforting. Someone who says “no” so often that it becomes a kind of identity.

At times, the story feels repetitive, but I actually think that’s on purpose. Lucas’s thoughts go in circles…constantly justifying, explaining, defending, and it starts to feel a little claustrophobic. But in a way that works. It captures that feeling of being stuck in your own head, where every thought just leads you back to the same place.

Because of that, the story might feel like it doesn’t go anywhere. There’s no big transformation, no dramatic shift…just a small disruption in a very controlled life. But that also makes it feel realistic. Not every story is about huge change. Sometimes it’s just about the tiniest crack forming in something you thought was solid.

It also made me think about my own “three things” …a really good book, my cats, and my Therasage heating pad. There’s something appealing about a quiet, contained life like that…for me. But I think Backman is gently nudging at the idea that maybe what feels like comfort can sometimes be a way of keeping everything (and everyone) at a distance.

I wouldn’t recommend starting with this if you’re new to Backman.  I’ve liked his other work a lot more...but this one does stick with you in a quieter way.

And maybe that’s what the book is really getting at...that it’s easy to build a life where nothing really disturbs you…but a little harder to know if that’s actually the same thing as being happy.

 

And the Mountains Echoed

 

And the Mountains Echoed 

By Khaled Hosseini

A few weeks ago, my sister Amanda asked if I’d read, “And the Mountains Echoed.” I hadn’t, but I loved The Kite Runner so that has a way of fast-tracking anything else Khaled Hosseini has written straight to the top of the pile.

Dare I say...some writers tell stories...Hosseini composes them.

Within a few pages, there is no doubt you’re in the hands of a master. His words don’t just describe…they linger…they make you feel something. 

The novel opens with a quiet invitation: “Let me tell you a story…” And my only thought was, yes…please, take your time.

So, I did what any sensible person would do…I turned the heating pad on, poured a glass of wine and politely dismissed the world for a while.

We begin in a small Afghan village in the 1940s, where a father tells his children a haunting tale…one that feels less like a bedtime story and more like a warning whispered through generations. By morning, a journey to Kabul sets off a chain of events that stretches across continents and decades, threading lives together in ways both delicate and devastating.

At its core, this is a novel about love…but not the easy, polished kind. This is love under pressure. Love that survives distance, silence, sacrifice. Love that shows up uninvited, sometimes unrecognized, and often at a cost. Hosseini writes it with an honesty that feels almost intrusive…almost as if you’ve stumbled into something sacred.

One line stopped me cold…so much so that I had to call Vee just to read it aloud:
“They say, find a purpose in your life and live it. But sometimes, it is only after you have lived that you recognize your life had a purpose…”
It’s the kind of sentence that doesn’t just resonate…it rearranges something. Don’t you think?

What stayed with me most, though, is the idea of echoes. Not just in name, but in nature. Every choice in this book…every act of love, desperation, or survival…travels. It reverberates. It finds its way into other lives, other years, other hearts. Watching those ripples unfold is as beautiful as it is unsettling.

Characters wrestle with impossible truths, quiet compromises, and the kind of moral gray areas that don’t resolve neatly. Some stay when leaving might be easier. Some leave and spend a lifetime wondering if they ever really did. And through it all, there’s that persistent question…does a different path mean a better one…or just a different kind of loss?

This isn’t a novel that hands you answers. It hands you reflection.

By the end, I found myself circling a quieter realization…maybe life isn’t about perfectly choosing the “right” path, but about inhabiting the one you’re on…shaping it, enduring it, softening it where you can. We don’t always get clarity in the moment. Sometimes meaning arrives late, like an echo returning long after the sound has faded.

And that’s exactly what this book does.

It echoes.

Long after the final page, it lingers…not loudly, but persistently…settling into the spaces you didn’t realize were empty. It reminds you that what we do, especially in love or desperation, doesn’t disappear. It carries. It connects. It comes back.

Some stories end when you close the book.

This one just grows quieter, and deeper…until you realize you’re still listening.

I See You’ve Called in Dead

 

I See You’ve Called in Dead 

By John Kenney

Cindy chose this book for our next book club, and my immediate reaction was…sounds uplifting, lol and I wonder how this will go.  It seems that honest narratives about death would be really hard to write, in my humble opinion.  I thought the premise itself was instantly intriguing, and Kenney walked a careful line between dark humor and genuine introspection. I think he pulls it off. There are some funny parts…the kind where you laugh and then immediately question your moral compass.

At the center of the story is Bud Stanley, an obituary writer who is, somewhat ironically, afraid to live. Bud is armed with a sharp, self-deprecating wit, especially in his exchanges with Tim, his wheelchair-bound friend and former art dealer, who often feels like the only person fully awake in the room.

The plot kicks into motion when Bud, drunk and spiraling, writes his own obituary. In a twist of bureaucratic absurdity, his newspaper, already itching to fire him, finds itself in a bind. After all, you can’t exactly fire a dead man. Bud, recognizing an opportunity wrapped in a clerical glitch, begins attending the funerals of strangers, hoping proximity to death might finally teach him something about life.

And oddly enough…it does.

As Bud drifts from wake to wake, inserting himself into the grief of strangers (which is not, by most standards, a normal hobby), he begins to reconnect with people, with meaning, with himself. There’s something quietly compelling about watching a man come back to life by lingering in rooms meant for goodbye.

One of the most meaningful moments in the book, to me, is Bud reflecting on his mother’s obituary…just seventy-four words. Seventy-four. That’s all it took to summarize an entire life. And yet, none of the real things made it in…the small, human details that actually are a life:

how she loved the beach
how she did a little hip shake when a song she liked came on
how she hummed when she was happy
how she leaned over the toaster on cold mornings, warming her face
how she’d smile and raise her eyebrows twice…their little secret

It makes you wonder: what would be left out of yours?

Maybe the real exercise isn’t writing your own obituary…but asking someone who loves you to write it for you. That version might be the truer one.

And yet… while I liked it, I didn’t quite love it.

It’s been hard to pinpoint why, but I think it’s a bit like a conversation that almost turns meaningful…right before someone changes the subject.

The characters are interesting, though sometimes kept at arm’s length, and the premise does a lot of the heavy lifting. You keep reading because it’s unusual and thoughtful…but you’re left wishing it dug just a little deeper into the messier, more uncomfortable truths it circles.

Still, there’s something that undeniably resonates about Bud’s journey. At its core, this is a story about being stuck…stuck in fear, in routine, in the past, and the quiet, often awkward ways we try to claw our way back into living. There’s a kind of revelation to that kind of awakening, and it stays with you.

One passage, in particular, captures the whole idea beautifully…a reminder that life is less about grand turning points and more about the accumulation of small, seemingly insignificant choices:

“𝘖𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴, 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘴. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘫𝘰𝘣 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘤𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘫𝘰𝘣. 𝘞𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵-𝘪𝘧𝘴…𝘞𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥𝘴, 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘭 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘴𝘩, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘯𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘦, 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦. 𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘢𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘣𝘶𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘶𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘭𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘨 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘰𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘧𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘨 𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘔𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘦𝘭 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘬𝘢𝘺, 𝘔𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘦𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘒𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘹 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘰, 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴' 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯. 𝘓𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.”

It’s funny. It’s sad. It’s a little unsettling. It’s true…it is truly a portrait of living.

I recently heard someone say that we die twice: once when our body does, and again when people stop saying our name.

That thought stayed with me. It made this story feel heavier in hindsight.

Because in the end, I See You’ve Called in Dead isn’t really about death…it’s about noticing the life we’re already in, before it quietly slips into seventy-four words.

 

Strangers

 

Strangers 

By Belle Burden

When my friend Stephanie asked if I would read Strangers and share my thoughts, I was genuinely touched, and curious. What I found was a memoir that is, at its core, an intimate portrait of a marriage unraveling. But it’s also a book that left me frustrated, conflicted, and questioning far more than it answered.

Belle Burden tells the story of a life that, on the surface, appears enviable: Manhattan apartments, elite schools, Ivy League pedigrees, trust funds, and summers in Martha’s Vineyard. The details accumulate in a way that feels almost excessive…private tennis clubs, waterfront homes, high-end decorators. At times, these glimpses into extreme privilege feel less like context and more like a barrier to connection. While Burden gestures toward humility through her commitment to public service as a lawyer, there’s a noticeable lack of acknowledgment that such choices are often only available to the very wealthy.

That absence of self-awareness becomes one of the memoir’s central weaknesses. Not because privilege negates pain…it doesn’t…but because without reflection, the emotional weight of her story can feel ungrounded. Her marriage ends abruptly after the discovery of her husband’s affair, and we are asked to accept that everything had been “fine.” I found that difficult to believe. The emotional distance, his coldness toward both her and their children, and her complete shock suggest a deeper disconnect that the memoir never fully interrogates.

Structurally, the book moves between past and present, tracing their courtship alongside the collapse of their relationship. This shifting timeline mirrors the author’s own attempt to make sense of what happened. What did she miss? When did things change? Or are some endings simply unknown? The book leans into this ambiguity, which feels honest, but also, at times, very frustrating.

One of the more unsettling aspects for me was Burden’s detachment from her own financial reality. As a lawyer, her lack of awareness about her household finances, and her complete reliance on her husband felt less like trust and more like willful disengagement. It raises a broader question: why do so many women still abdicate financial responsibility, even today? Life is not a fairytale, and this memoir is, in many ways, a stark reminder of that.

Beyond the personal story, the book unintentionally opens up larger questions about marriage itself. Why do we continue to elevate and idealize romantic partnerships to such an extent? Why are traditional paths…marriage, children still treated as defaults, especially for women? The book doesn’t directly ask these questions, but it certainly invites them.

For me, reading this as someone who has never been married and does not have children added another layer. My life, rich in friendship, independence, and self-sufficiency, stands in quiet contrast to the world Burden describes. I couldn’t help but reflect on the importance of knowing oneself…financially, emotionally, and practically. No one is coming to save you. Not even in marriage.

Ultimately, I would not call this a great love story, nor would I frame it as a feminist manifesto. Instead, it reads as a personal reckoning…a story of endurance, confusion, and hard-earned awareness. It’s about learning to live with unanswered questions and moving forward anyway.

The takeaway is simple, if not easy: communication matters. Awareness matters. And perhaps most importantly, no one is immune to upheaval…not even those who seem to have everything.

Overall, this book serves less as a story of heartbreak and more as a cautionary tale.