There's a great deal to like about this well-written layered story of generations of people in France and their lives and their secrets, but there were also some plot and character choices I really didn't dig. 

 ’ve read and loved two other books by Valérie Perrin and Forgotten on Sunday, her debut novel, did not disappoint. While it is noticeably shorter than her later novels, her beautiful writing and her ability to seamlessly weave together multiple story threads are clearly evident here.

Justine is 21. She lives in a small French village where she has been raised by her grandparents along with her younger cousin Jules following the death of their parents in a tragic road accident. She works in a care facility and has formed a bond with Hélène, a resident who is nearing 100 years old, listening to stories about her life and recording them in a notebook. Hèléne’s story forms the novel’s second timeline. The characterisation was rich - Hèléne and Lucien especially were depicted with such tenderness. Plenty of small details were seamlessly included which brought the settings both historical and contemporary, including the care home where some residents received no visitors, giving rise to the title. And the plot had lots going on including epic love, illicit love, loss, tragedy, revenge, regret, and a long hidden secret. It is a bit of a slow burn, but the quality of the writing and the storytelling mean it never feels slow. As a reader I was happy to enjoy the journey the author was taking me on, confident it would be a worthwhile and satisfying one. I was not disappointed. 

Thanks to the publisher and netgalley for my digital ARC in exchange for a review!

I don’t know what it is about Valérie Perrin’s writing and Hildegarde Serle’s translations but damn the two combined make for books you can’t help but devour! Everything about the style just flows so easily, yet it’s not simplistic. Forgotten on Sunday follows two narratives - Justine, a 21-year-old care worker who lives with her grandparents and cousin, and Hélène, an elderly woman whose story Justine is writing down.

In the end, I preferred Hélène’s story, a woman who learns to read braille from a blind man’s son since she had no education, later marrying that son only to have their lives derailed by World War Two. There’s barely any detail about the war itself, which honestly I appreciate, the focus is on its aftermath - devastating for Hélène but not in the way you’d usually expect.

Justine’s narrative… went to some places I was not expecting, and found a little too… scandalous? Melodramatic? Soap opera-ish 😅 But I did love the passion she had for her work at the care home - the title refers to those folks in care homes who have no visits from family on a Sunday, and Justine does her best to afford them the respect and attention they deserve. Perrin writes with lovely tenderness, but then the ~big secret~ that is revealed towards the end put a bit of a sour taste in my mouth. She did a similar thing with Three - puts in a huge twist which just seems overdone and put in for shock factor.

Although neither this novel or Three have come close to the brilliance that is Fresh Water for Flowers, I can’t deny that they are addictive reads! Perrin creates great atmosphere, her characters pop, and her style is smooth - I just resent the over-the-top twists!

Cet livre est wild. Un peu bizarre, parfois un peu déroutant. Mais il m’a toujours tenu investi. L’histoire d’Hélène m’a captivé dès le début c’était comme si elle était ma propre grande-mère.
Je n’ai pas aimé Justine. Je veux pas dire que je la détestais, c’est juste que je l’ai trouvée parfois irritante. Genre, tout ce truc avec elle et l’homme dont le prénom elle a même pas pris le temps d’apprendre. Quel malheur.

Et tous ça qu’elle se languissait d’un homme marié dont elle ni savait rien??? STAND UP!!!!

Et ça sur Edna????? Elle finira définitivement à aucune plage au paradis. Horrible, elle. Et maintenant ni ta propre fille ni ton petit-fils te parle 🤨

Armande je ne crois qu’existe un mot dans la langue française pour décrire ta … perversion. Je veux dire, Annette est pas innocente, mais toi, Armande. Baiser la femme de ton fils? Je suis bien sûr que c’est quelque genre d’inceste.

Eugénie, tu me donnes peur. Je comprends ta colère et ton douleur, mais mon dieu. HOMICIDE???? Et maintenant ça résulte que t’as tué t’es fils. Karma, I guess.