The saving grace of this book is its general theme, I guess. Coping with loss, motherhood struggle, and all. I'm not sure whether my detachment with this book is due to my inexperience with pregnancy and motherhood and all that jazz, or if it is just not that well-written. The storyline is decent, I suppose. It's nothing special, but I can see the appeal. The book has several good one-liners here and there, but that's also the problem: the story feels more like an excuse to deliver those one-liners.

But one main takeaway (for me) from this book is that white people is basically gross.... I mean, how can someone store a plate that has been used as an ashtray by their guest under their bed FOR DAYS?? Along with the cigarette butt? Also a broken photo frame and torn-up picture? Like, don't you guys want a clean room? Don't you have some... I don't know, hygiene standard, I guess?

At the end of the day, I think this is more on the "okay" pile.
I don't quite like it, but I appreciate that it can be read rather quickly from start to finish.