I really wanted to love this, but the whole thing just feels so oppressive and sad. Ostensibly it's about this hytte (Norwegian summer cabin) on a strange little island, but really it's about the grandmother, who was a horrible person who hurt her children immensely and threw herself into selfish hedonism at the expense of everyone around her. The author doesn't seem to get this, though, and idealizes her grandmother, and doesn't even seem curious about why her own mother is so unable to function in so many essential ways. All against a background of constant activity on this island, relentless busyness for the sake of activity, making up what seems to have been a tedious childhood of constant chores and performative Norwegianness. The writing is beautiful but bleak and disconnected from all the people and even the island itself. This book left me feeling sad about summer in Norway, which I don't think was the point.