Anna Quindlen is an achiever in fiction writing. She knows the rules and she is so industrious, so detail oriented, so sensitive to women issues, mood swings, and life’s surprises that you can’t really complain about the quality of her writing. And — still you can! This book attempts to cover absolutely everything—and does so formulaically. It feels as though Quindlen gathered a checklist of every modern female concern, striving to address each one without ever achieving depth or finding an original angle. While she occasionally captures a sharp detail or mirrors a familiar feeling perfectly, the overall narrative ultimately leaves an aftertaste of banality and dissatisfaction.
This clutter is the inevitable result of cramming a dizzying array of subplots into a single novel:
- Mother-daughter friction
- Deep father-daughter affection
- Cross-marital betrayal
- Late-in-life discovery of a biological father
- Dealing with a parent’s dementia
- A sister’s tight bond with her gay brother
- Watching a fabulous best friend die of cancer
- Chronic parental self-doubt
- The quiet grief of a childless family
- Desperation to conceive
- A child coping with maternal loss
While Quindlen meticulously anchors these subtopics to her protagonist, the execution feels synthetic. In the end, it feels like she was busy checking boxes rather than writing about life itself.