Critics of literary fiction say they hate it because nothing happens. Lovers of literary fiction say they love it because nothing happens. I may be making that up, but the appeal of the genre for me has always been the character study at the centre, and this book is a good example.
The narrator is a father of two adult children, separated from his wife three years before, but still feeling it keenly. He spends much of his time sitting in a back room of the bungalow he still lives in, possibly drinking too much. His kids look in and try to keep an eye on him, but they have their own lives. When his daughter receives a (spoiler: the) dread diagnosis, he has to find himself again, and examine the ways in which he has fathered his children, and how he has responded to his many losses.
It’s a really thoughtful portrait of fatherhood, unusual for me as most of the books I read that are like this are about motherhood. I loved it for this, and for the protagonist, too. He’s far from perfect, or knowledgeable, or confident, or any of the things fake fathers in books tend to be. He’s emotional, and conflicted, and confused, and stumbling, a delicately-drawn human.
That’s my main recommendation of this book, the primary reason I think you should read it. There are some deeply sad moments, and things in fact get really bleak; but the novel does end on an achingly beautiful, hopeful note.
Thank you to University of Iowa Press and to NetGalley for the ARC.