“There are so many family caregivers in the United States that if they were paid their labor would be worth more than the amount spent on all other forms of professional long-­term care combined” writes Mauldin. Trained as a medical sociologist she also fell in love with a woman whose leukemia returned to which Mauldin responded by learning other skills managing medications administering IV infusions and conducting physical therapy sessions. There is Mauldin charges a “dehumanizing logic” that accompanies such care: The caregiver likely working a full-time job herself—and most caretaking falls to women—may come to feel resentful at the extra responsibilities while the person being cared for may come to feel unworthy a burden. Indeed Mauldin writes it is a sign of unhealthfulness in society that we increasingly accept that it’s all right for the caregiver to walk away from such unpleasantries. Interviewing scores of people who fall under the rubric of “The One” the one who does the caretaking because so few people can afford private home care Mauldin describes some of the attendant stresses as they attend to loved ones afflicted by MS traumatic brain injury HIV/AIDS Alzheimer’s disease and other maladies. She also notes that these burdens tend to fall more lightly on white people than on people of color: “Black women are especially ignored viewed only as ‘incompetent’ and not listened to about their care needs.” For them as for queer people Mauldin writes it has long been customary to form “alternative communal” forms of care as well as advocacy groups for disability rights disability justice and “different distributions of care labor.”

Amie Teller has been stuck on the same Sept. 17th for two years: Waking up every morning to the same coffee shop that’s always out of blueberry bagels; witnessing the same argument between her friend David Lenski and their notoriously unpleasant neighbor Savannah Harlow; surviving the same awkward “friend date” with her ex-girlfriend Ziya Mathur whom Amie maybe wishes weren’t an ex at all. Everything is exactly as expected which is kind of how Amie likes things. So what should she do when time moves and she’s free and completely unprepared to live a day she hasn’t already rehearsed hundreds of times? Before she can figure out what life even looks like out of the eponymous loop Amie learns that Savannah was murdered on September 17. Convinced that no one understands the day as comprehensively as she does she accepts what she takes to be a kind of cosmic assignment: If she can solve Savannah’s murder maybe she can make sense of having lost two years. With David’s help and some assistance and romantic friction from Ziya Amie sifts through Sept. 17 over and over to find those tiny moments she didn’t realize really mattered. By solving the mystery of Savannah’s death Amie hopes to resolve her own questions about whether she and Ziya have potential or if the time loop has drifted them too far apart.

Rupert argues that while “authenticity is supposed to [be freeing] for some…it stands in the way of freedom.” Drawing on her background as a presidential campaign manager and adviser and her lived experience as a Black woman Rupert reveals how authenticity actually operates as a barrier to both equality and inclusion. While running former San Antonio Mayor Julián Castro’s 2020 presidential campaign she observed firsthand the way “unconscious biases and double standards” affected candidates of color like Castro and others. What she saw tallied with her own experiences and the way she often had to “contort” herself into social acceptability by performing a version of blackness approved by the dominant (white) culture. This involved such tactics as the “code-switching” or speech pattern adjustments such as those made by presidential candidate Kamala Harris depending on whether she was speaking to white or Black audiences. In the world of popular music and culture the author sees similar biases that work against people of color. While Taylor Swift is allowed to appear as the imperfect vulnerable—and therefore authentic—“girl next door” Beyoncé must be the flawless Queen Bey because “[f]or people of color the appeal has to be indisputable to be recognized at all.” To begin leveling an unequal cultural playing field Rupert suggests that authenticity needs to be rethought. Rather than continuing to treat it as an entrapping “ideology” it must be seen as “methodology” that allows people of color to survive a white supremacist society.

Unfortunately none of the dogs and cats at the animal shelter feel quite right. Leo is searching for something special maybe even magical. At a lively open-air market Leo and his older brother Rey are drawn to a vendor selling fantastical brightly colored creatures—combinations of different animals in dazzling hues. The brown-skinned shopkeeper explains that these are alebrijes magical beings from Mexico that can be adopted only by those they choose. Leo is overjoyed when a neon-winged wolf-dog selects him. He names it Lobo. But life with a magical pet isn’t easy. Lobo flies off during baths races away “faster than a bolt of lightning” on walks and leaves foul-smelling rainbow messes in his wake. Overwhelmed Leo wonders if he can handle such a powerful companion. But with Mamá Papá and Rey’s help he learns to care for Lobo in creative ways. Inspired by real-life alebrijes vibrant Mexican folk-art sculptures of mythical creatures Gama’s inviting illustrations burst with energy and imagination. Though fantastical Marquez’s heartwarming story makes clear that adopting a pet—even an out-of-this-world one—isn’t easy but teamwork makes all the difference. Leo and Mamá have warm brown skin and curly dark hair; Rey and Papá have lighter skin and dark hair. The family is cued Latine and Spanish words are interspersed.

The 1992 standoff at Ruby Ridge Idaho has largely been forgotten. Jennings the author of Paradise Now (2016) revives the story with the moment that touched off tragedy: Survivalist Randy Weaver had holed up with his family in a mountain retreat and having essentially entrapped him in an illegal gun sale the FBI came looking for him. A dog was killed then a 14-year-old boy then an agent after which Ruby Ridge became the site of a siege in which Randy’s wife died. While the agency never admitted overreach the FBI quietly settled with the survivors Randy among them some years after the standoff. Jennings links this event to the popular “dispensationalist” theology filling the airwaves at the time courtesy of televangelists such as Pat Robertson which among other things promulgated the argument that because Jesus was going to return any day now there was no need to fret about nuclear war environmental degradation and the like—apocalyptic views endorsed by President Reagan and numerous members of his cabinet. “If earthly conditions are supposed to be growing worse” writes Jennings “then all the old hopeful schemes for sprucing things up come to resemble schemes of a more sinister nature.” So the Weavers apparently thought and so did the Branch Davidians who came under siege a year later and so Jennings suggests do subscribers to QAnon mythology today. In any event as Jennings writes the Weavers became martyrs to the Christian nationalist cause the Charlie Kirks of their day “saints of circumstance beatified by the calamity that landed upon their heads.” The antigovernment stance of the Weavers and their supporters lives on too; as Jennings writes “Three decades on Ruby Ridge looks more like the start of something than its finale.”

Nisha’s only interacted with her grandparents Ammamma and Appappa over video chat. Now they’re on their way from Kerala India. The house is bustling with activity as everyone gets ready for the big visit: Nisha’s aunties prepare samosas in the kitchen while other relatives arrive laden with gifts. They surround Nisha giving her loud smooches and big squeezes squishing her cheeks and swinging her around. Just as Nisha feels hugged out her grandparents arrive and the whole family embraces them peppering them with questions. When someone prompts Nisha to hug Ammamma and Appappa she feels overwhelmed and runs to her room. Her mother reassures her; after all there are many ways to express love. Nisha shows her grandparents the new painting she’s been working on and is soon sitting beside them truly feeling the love. Macias depicts a boisterous yet empathetic South Asian family whose love for one another is palpable as they give their littlest space to deal with big feelings; speech bubbles conveying Nisha’s relatives’ near-constant stream of chatter contrasts effectively with the child’s quieter inner monologue. Joshi’s illustrations rendered in bright saturated primary colors are filled with movement and energy balancing joyful scenes of reunion with Nisha’s need for space and quiet.

Gina loves to draw and she has an autistic younger brother Rob who has an intellectual disability. She’s stressed about the normal things like making new friends and starting her period. She’s rarely bothered by a life that revolves around her brother’s safety with a strict routine and locks on doors and cupboards. As Gina tells her new friend Callie Rob repeats sounds—echolalia—but only rarely says words to intentionally convey meaning. Rob communicates with his family using idiosyncratic personal sign language. The Chaddertons are a loving household but Rob’s occasional violent outbursts are nonetheless frightening. Callie who has light-brown skin is a wonderful giving friend who’s great with Rob. This lightly fictionalized memoir is Gina’s story not her brother’s—she describes her goal as sharing her “experience of being a sibling of someone with high support needs.” Because Rob is minimally speaking he doesn’t have his own voice in the story though Gina represents him empathically. The simple cartoon-style illustrations in a vibrant color palette quietly pay artistic tribute to some classics of comic style. The author’s note which includes family photos mentions the author’s adult diagnosis of autism demonstrating her insider’s view of the subject.

It’s 1960 and Ormond Basil has mostly retired from the screen to live peacefully in Antibes on the French Riviera but he still enjoys an excuse to travel and indulge himself with some shopping. As so often happens among expatriate communities his travels reunite him with an old friend Pietro Malerba a movie producer and his inamorata Najat Farjallah a fading opera diva. The three are stranded on the small island of Utakos by a storm when a fellow guest of their hotel is found dead in a beach cabana a probable death by suicide. There are details however that hint at foul play—the fact that there was only one set of footprints in the sand; a clean threshold; an anomaly with the rope—and so the proprietress and the other guests turn to Basil who famously portrayed Sherlock Holmes in a number of earlier movies. Together with his Dr. Watson figure a Spanish mystery writer named Francisco Foxá Basil leans into the role drawing on his excellent knowledge of Arthur Conan Doyle as well as his own experiences inhabiting the most famous British detective. As he deduces and observes alludes and concludes everyone begins to treat him more and more like a real detective—including the murderer who not only strikes again but leaves taunting clues to draw him in. The novel’s tone is clever and entertaining but also somewhat melancholy poignant—a reflection on a time gone by a generation now passed. This version of Holmes has a weary dignity a wry sense of self-awareness—he wants to stretch out the farce as long as possible rather than “return to melancholy afternoons of tedium and fog”—but Pérez-Reverte doesn’t hesitate to comment on places Basil falls short of the legend whom he both admires and resents while cheekily dropping names like shiny coins.

Ever since Emlyn accidentally opened connections between the spheres in the series opener she’s known she’d have to be the one to put things back to rights. This is no easy task for her and her Novem because one of their members Laramie is missing in the storyworlds. Laramie is accompanied by Frank an injured wyvern who needs to get home for the sake of her health. Meanwhile Camille Emlyn’s sister finds herself held captive as bait in one of the spheres. Working together Emlyn and her team must break the bridges between worlds in order to build new pathways and set the stories straight. With such high stakes failure isn’t an option. As readers dive back into the world of Rivenlea they’re welcomed by familiar characters who help ground them as the action immediately picks up. Since there’s little recap of previous events readers must be familiar with the earlier book to fully appreciate this one. The well-crafted worldbuilding details and thoughtfully laid out plot points combine to produce an entertaining story. The use of multiple perspectives and a layered narrative structure guides readers through the various reimagined storyworlds. Franklin’s effective use of foreshadowing creates an engaging experience that will particularly resonate with readers who are familiar with the classic stories she draws upon. The central cast presents white.

At 33 Amandine has never been on a real date. Since her parents died she’s been living in her childhood home constantly doomscrolling and unable to retain a job due to her undiagnosed neurodiversity. Thirty-year-old Connor is unemployed living with his father and still dealing with the emotional trauma from his mother’s abuse and abandonment. After weeks of texting they finally meet at a local gastropub. However Amandine is unsettled by the only other patron there a greasy-ponytailed middle-aged man wearing a wrinkled tuxedo and slurping down a bowl of tomato soup. Besides a few rocky moments the date goes very well—until Amandine and Connor are alone in the parking lot phones dead forced to walk several miles home. They get less than a mile down the road before Amandine’s heels and the arctic chill incapacitate them and Connor negotiates with a passing car for a ride. Amandine reluctantly allows Connor to coax her into the car only to realize too late that the driver is the Lone Diner from earlier. What follows is a harrowing tale of kidnapping and brutality as Amandine and Connor battle to survive. Amor’s prose is unnerving with plenty of grotesque imagery that will keep readers hooked and disturbed. Told from the perspectives of Amandine Connor and the Lone Diner the book allows readers to experience both the horror of the victims and the warped mindset of the predator. Amandine’s descriptions of daily life as a neurodivergent person ring true such as when she describes dealing with executive dysfunction: “On the really bad days I can’t even dress myself wash my hair brush my teeth.” The unexpected ending may divide readers but they’ll be riveted from beginning to end.

Opal is hoping to track down more information about a woman whose photo appeared in a clipping from the notable African American newspaper the Chicago Defender. Her name was Maude Watson and she was an agent who disappeared in 1905; Opal believes she may be a long-lost relative. Trying to crack codes and ciphers left by Maude puts all her skills to the test and she must rely on her friends and parents for help. Before long she also finds herself entangled in exposing a possible bird-smuggling ring: Blizzard an unusual bird belonging to Piper the sister of Opal’s former bully Jake was taken from her birdcage. Opal lives with retinitis pigmentosa a degenerative eye condition but she refuses to let it stop her sleuthing. She makes use of her trusty cane Pinkerton and the app designed by her mother for identifying items in low-light conditions. Thurman’s writing is witty and humorous but she also addresses forgotten history and serious topics like bullying and self-doubt. The story moves at a brisk pace keeping the momentum going as clues surface and puzzles come together. Themes of forgiveness and collaboration emerge as Opal navigates her complicated feelings toward Jake while also experiencing moments of longing for Meme Augustine her beloved grandmother who lives in New Orleans.

Sylvia Moy may not be among the names that come to mind when thinking of the Motown sound. Painfully shy Moy was nevertheless respected by peers at the Detroit record label—for her musicality as a lyricist and her sharp instincts for song construction on paper and in the studio. But before second-wave feminism blossomed in the 1970s unless a woman worked with a male artist (think Carole King and Gerry Goffin) she wasn’t likely to get a songwriting credit; a production credit was out of the question. Christian a former journalist at Ebony and Jet magazines writes “With all the things [Moy] cultivated at Motown for her to have been the first woman contracted in-house to simultaneously…write songs and produce alongside her male counterparts during the label’s peak in the sixties and not be distinguished for it at the time is deplorable.” Full appreciation of Moy’s work would have to wait decades. Before her death at age 78 in 2017 peers who worked with her during Motown’s golden age including Martha Reeves and above all Stevie Wonder were already giving the artist her due as one of the greatest songwriters of all time. Hits she contributed to include Wonder’s “Uptight (Everything’s Alright)” and “My Cherie Amour” and Martha and the Vandellas’ “Honey Child” and “Forget Me Not” among many others. Christian has a tricky task of making her taciturn subject stand out from the background of a vibrant scene full of colorful characters but Moy comes alive as the author describes the productive relationship with Wonder as he moved from wunderkind to mature artist just before the label was ready to drop him for failing to earn a hit.

By Hyman’s account many of the nation’s ills shared in other “developed” nations if perhaps less starkly “all lead back to our forks”: an obesity epidemic a rapidly rising rate of preventable diseases such as Type 2 diabetes environmental destruction a teetering economy. These visit our forks courtesy of the megacorporations that dominate food production and dish out ultraprocessed sugary chemically laden goods that “don’t even meet the definition of ‘food.’” In this revised and expanded edition of his 2020 book Hyman’s narrative is heavy on numbers: 93.2 percent of Americans are “metabolically unhealthy”; in the past 40-odd years every state in the union has posted ever-higher obesity rates with some coming in at 40 percent and “most others landing over 30 percent”; and particularly tellingly “most of our modern industrial food comes from just twelve plant varieties and five animal species.” Hyman offers a corrective program that he considers nonpartisan yet readers will discern a libertarian streak: He suggests that soda be exempted from purchase with SNAP benefits and bemoans the fact that the federal government pays almost 40 percent of direct health care costs “funded by you the taxpayer.” Moreover he invokes Robert F. Kennedy Jr. at several points with praise and he deplores “the merciless assassination of legendary free thinker Charlie Kirk.” For all that some of his “fixes” seem incontestable including the position that farmers and food workers should be paid a living wage that field workers (mostly migrants once upon a time) should be granted “time to rest to prevent exhaustion and heat stroke” and that Congress should fund “programs that help farmers grow more fruits and vegetables or actual food.”

The author of numerous books of Black history and biography Haygood begins with the memory of his childhood block where six close neighbors were dispatched to fight in Vietnam. That anecdotal evidence well illustrates the fact “that in the early years Blacks were disproportionately being sent to the front of the battle lines in Vietnam when compared with whites.” The pattern would continue throughout the war. Like the “Double V” campaign for civil rights during and after World War II a resistance movement in Vietnam was paralleling events back home. One of his case studies is a young Black major who walked into a press briefing room in Saigon and read a statement that “the American military services are the strongest citadels of racism on the face of the earth.” For his defiant candor he was forcibly retired from the service. The Black Power movement arrived at the front “with the force of a hurricane” exemplified by the elaborate handshake called dapping which began to worry the mostly white officers in charge concerned that rebellion was being fomented in the ranks. They were right to worry: Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On was spinning on the turntable Black soldiers were growing their hair in afros and disregarding orders morale was plummeting and injustices were mounting. In this wide-ranging survey Haygood relates any number of terrible stories: a Medal of Honor winner suffering from PTSD and unable to find work back home gunned down while attempting to rob a grocery store; a 15-year-old who lied about his age to join the Marines the youngest American to die in Vietnam; the distinguished doctor whose days were ending in treatment for exposure to Agent Orange.

Thompson a Pulitzer winner for Blood in the Water her history of a 1971 prison uprising not only presents a comprehensive account of a vicious outburst that shook New York four decades ago. She also elucidates how the incident still has a malign influence. On December 22 1984 Bernhard Goetz a 37-year-old Manhattanite shot four Black teens on a city subway. The victims she writes were “boisterous” but Goetz an unabashed bigot said he didn’t feel threatened. “If I had more bullets I would have shot them all again and again” he told police. The victims survived but were forever changed Thompson writes. One suffered brain damage and would spend his life in a wheelchair; another “deliberately overdosed” on the 27th anniversary of the shooting. Goetz meanwhile gained numerous white admirers. He signed autographs received a Good Samaritan award and did under a year in prison. Thompson thoroughly covers the court proceedings but she truly excels when exploring the broader trends that led to the shooting and the “throughline” connecting Goetz to “the America of President Donald Trump.” Digging into Ronald Reagan’s policies—tax cuts for the rich funding decreases for city services—she explains how high unemployment and underfunded schools in urban neighborhoods were among the “larger forces working against” the victims. Subsequently the “white racial rage” supporting Goetz empowered right-wing organizations like the NRA politicians like Rudy Giuliani whose stop-and-frisk policing openly discriminated against people of color and media organizations like Rupert Murdoch’s New York Post which championed Goetz and honed a belligerent conservatism now seen by millions of Murdoch’s Fox News viewers. Thompson’s prose can be repetitive—more than two dozen sentences start with the phrase “what is more”—but her skill for historical dot-connecting makes this a worthy informative book.

Silverman a specialist in the history of Native Americans in New England opens with a monument proposed for Staten Island in the early 1900s that would have depicted an idealized “Indian” welcoming new arrivals to New York Harbor just as its pitchman said the “Red Man gave to the White Man when our forefathers first came to these shores.” The monument went unbuilt but the spirit underlying it lived and lives on in a white supremacism and exceptionalism that views the Indigenous people as an inconvenient obstacle to progress. Silverman draws on a recent historical movement called Settler Colonial Studies to argue that the responses to this obstacle constituted genocide in the strictest sense of the term. Moreover the element of race and racism defined a social Darwinism that held that whites were the superior and that “Indians” (and other ethnic minorities) the inferior—and that these inferiors were destined for extinction or assimilation which amounted to the same thing. “Indians always have been and remain central to the history of race-making in America” Silverman urges whether defined as savages or as unenlightened beings who simply needed to have the “Indian” erased from their cultures through prohibiting the use of Indigenous languages and the observation of traditional customs—often accomplished by kidnapping Native children for adoption by white parents a “racial crime” one sees enacted in places such as Russian-occupied Ukraine today. Race continues to be a defining factor in a number of ways including the fact that many tribes require a certain “blood quantum” for membership and a share of the distribution of revenues.

Forty-seven-year-old S has divorced her husband and come out of the closet. She leads a low-key pleasant existence in an unnamed Midwestern town. After she’s suddenly dumped by Z her friends encourage her to embrace her “lesbian adolescence.” She agrees to go on 10 first dates. As S embarks on this mission she tries to keep her mind and her heart open. Still she can’t help ruminating on what went wrong with Z or on the mysteries and vagaries of love attraction and commitment. She’s lucky enough to meet many intriguing and alluring women; she has lots of fun banter and hot sex and her experiment expands and enriches her life immensely. Her situationships with the women she meets lead to new experiences and deep friendships. Still S is wary of commitment and unsure of what kind of relationship she wants. She also reflects on her co-parenting arrangement with her ex-husband and her role as a mother. She fears losing her bond with her best friend Amanda who may be moving away. S’s story is told in vivid prose and includes sage observations about life and human connection. The protagonist proves to be an engaging companion—her self-reflection self-knowledge and self-acceptance as she tries to be brave and vulnerable are refreshing. Readers will find it fun and fulfilling to journey with her as she aims to “live in the present let go of the past and aim toward the future at the same time.” Her romantic interests are all distinctive and well drawn and the evolutions of her relationships into meaningful friendships feel authentic and carefully observed. S’s obsession with Z while seriously examined grows somewhat repetitive and the complete absence of any disastrous dates strains credibility. But otherwise S’s tale is a charming and insightful exploration of reinvention and connection.

“Why China?” Well Appell studied Mandarin in college and went to China on a study-abroad fellowship where he fell in love with Beijing “a hot delicious absurdist puzzle box of a city.” What’s more he adds “Nothing was easy nothing was boring.” What proved to be particularly difficult but intriguing was a Chinese form of comedy called xiangsheng translated as “crosstalk” involving a joker and a straight man: “A: In the late Qing dynasty— B: They don’t know when that is! A: Late 1800s! B: Don’t act all cultured and leave them behind. A: I got this! Late 1800s. One of the Qing Emperors goes kaput. B: ‘Kaput?’ Was he a Yiddish emperor? A: Maybe.” It’s not quite Abbott and Costello but it’s in the neighborhood. What diverges in traditional Chinese comedy Appell writes is that it’s perfectly PC to make fun of regional differences—whereas doing political jokes of whatever stripe as he learns onstage and off can land you in the gulag or at least barred from the set. Guiding Appell through this rigorous education is a Master Ding who “would use his fifty years of comedy insight to blast the smallest mistakes in your performance in front of all the disciples. This sucked mostly because he was almost always right.” But soon enough the student becomes something of a master himself launching a Chinese sketch comedy show writing for and performing on TV founding a comedy club doing cruise ship gigs and even touring North American and European Chinese-language venues—and all in Chinese of course. There are adventures and misadventures aplenty and while there isn’t much in the way of howlingly funny japery here it’s an interesting way to examine another culture from the point of view of a “performing monkey” from a faraway land.

In this clever riff on “Jack and the Beanstalk” Pete the Kitty doesn’t trade in a cow but he does buy magic beans for his friend Callie’s birthday. She’s confused at first but then they plant the beans and as in the source tale a “super big” beanstalk grows overnight. The two curious kittens channel Jack and climb the beanstalk into a world above the clouds. There they find “a magic playground” and the text begins to indulge in some early reader–friendly repetition since “everything is super big.” The friends see huge flowers and toys; then they hear a giant’s loud voice. While the cartoon-style illustrations show Pete and Callie wide-eyed and shaking with fear it quickly becomes apparent that they needn’t worry: The giant named Cindy is friendly and she concludes her cry of “Fee! Fi! Fo! Fum!” not by scenting blood but by proclaiming “I just want to play my drums!” Cindy explains that her mother doesn’t appreciate her drumming and then Pete invites her to climb down the beanstalk with Callie and him to play in the band at the birthday party. With an ending befitting a fairy tale the narrative concludes “Friends are the best gift of all” as Cindy cradles the kitties in her giant arms.

In this work the author explores themes of self-discovery and emotional resilience using her own heartbreak as a focal point. Structured in four parts (“Getting Up” “Getting Out” “Getting Through” and “Getting On”) the book covers a year in Seemiller’s life. Beginning with the first days after a breakup the narrative takes readers through the author’s changing reactions from pain and raw emotion to much more reflective understandings of love attachment and self-worth. The book’s introduction “Naked and Afraid” finds Seemiller at a chaotic pool party: “Maybe spending the Fourth of July at a lesbian pool party I found online wasn’t the best idea” she writes. From there the author continues along the recovery path. Readers are taken on an emotional and humorous ride as Seemiller examines her fear of failure and her drive to find meaning beyond romantic validation. The author’s reflections are not limited to her romantic life—topics such as her parents’ troubled marriage and her experiences as a single mother allow her to address generational and psychological patterns that shaped her and others close to her. By the time Seemiller reaches the final section readers will notice a transformation: Instead of looking for a new soulmate Seemiller has learned to become emotionally whole on her own. The author’s voice—articulate yet unpretentious self-aware but not self-pitying (and sometimes laugh-out-loud funny)—elevates this book above the typical memoir. Seemiller at times writes with the insight of a psychologist and at others with the warmth of a friend; readers who have found themselves lost in the aftermath of a lost love will find themselves in her story (the author has a knack for making even ultra-personal confessions entirely relatable). Ultimately Seemiller delivers a compelling account of grief and growth demonstrating that even the most painful endings can lead to profound self-discovery and perhaps a new kind of love.