Andrea Leeb’s Such a Pretty Picture is a devastating and intimate memoir that tells the story of a childhood marked by trauma, silence, and survival. Set in 1960s and ’70s New York, the book opens with a gut-wrenching scene: a four-year-old Andrea is molested by her father during bath time. Her mother, upon discovering the abuse, collapses and goes temporarily blind—both literally and emotionally. That moment becomes a metaphor for what follows: a house where appearances are cherished, secrets are guarded, and a child is left alone in the fallout. What unfolds is a gripping narrative of emotional abandonment, maternal betrayal, and the long shadow of incest.

Reading this memoir gutted me. Not just because of the trauma Leeb endured, but because of how plainly she lays it bare. She doesn’t use flowery language or metaphors to distance herself—she brings you into the room with her. In Chapter 1, when she says, “The way he touched me felt strange: good but not good,” I felt that sick knot of confusion and fear. What shook me even more was her mother’s reaction—not to rescue, but to disappear. That decision to prioritize denial over protection sets the tone for the emotional cruelty that follows.

Leeb’s mother, Marlene, is portrayed with brutal honesty. She’s fragile, vain, jealous, and deeply wounded, but also dangerous in her indifference. You feel Andrea’s heartbreak not in screams, but in those small silences where a child should have been loved and wasn’t. The mother’s obsession with order and appearances, like matching pink nightgowns or birthday parties, just made the contrast sharper. I found myself mourning what Andrea never had more than anything she lost.

The darkest chapter for me was Chapter 6. Andrea, still a child, tapes her mouth shut, stuffs cotton in her nose and ears, and lies in bed trying to suffocate herself. Her suicide attempt is not melodramatic; it’s quiet, methodical, almost innocent in its execution. All she wants is for her mother to love her again. And when her mother finally holds her and says, “My poor baby. What have I done to you?”—You feel hope. But deep down, you know it’s just a pause before the next wave of pain. That’s the emotional rhythm of this book: brief tenderness followed by long stretches of ache.

This book is brutal. It’s heavy. But it’s honest in a way few memoirs are. It doesn’t try to make pain pretty. It doesn’t ask for pity. Andrea Leeb writes like someone who has lived through hell and made it her mission to tell the truth. I’d recommend this memoir to survivors, to those who work with trauma, and to anyone who’s ever wondered how abuse hides behind closed doors.

Pages: 256 | ASIN : B0DWYSSLL6