I really liked the writing here, but it wasn't enough to carry what is essentially 300 pages of man pain. It's so weird to me that a woman wrote this book. I was honestly a little angry by the time I got to the end of it.

I realised recently that a very specific sub-genre of book that I really enjoy is where people are struggling through grief, which sounds quite morbid, but I find the best ones usually have a huge feeling of hope about them, but this book just left me empty, and annoyed. I felt angry for Mary Rose, especially in the last couple of chapters. I felt the opposite of hope.