Hello readers! Sometimes I think so hard about a book that I simply must write about it and share here. Today’s newsletter is about one of those novels taking up lots of mental real estate right now. Thanks for being here with me.

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My childhood, while always safe and always housed, was a tumultuous one. I lived in five towns and eight homes while growing up, endured my parents’ rocky marriage and divorce, a parent who refused to pay child support, mandatory weekend visits with that parent, a remarriage, and all the confusing emotions those situations naturally elicit. We always had enough money to live, but money was always a *thing*, the way it wasn’t for some of my friends.

As did many children of my era with this type of childhood, I lost myself in books. It was pre-internet and I grew up without a TV. I was an early and precocious and obsessive reader, using books as an escape and coping mechanism and a shield against the trauma. Spending the weekend in an efficiency apartment in a strange town with a parent who would treat us to Snickers ice cream bars, but refuse to buy us toothbrushes and toothpaste because, “that’s what child support is for”, regardless of the fact that said support was rarely paid? Well, that’s nothing that a massive historical novel can’t erase!