The writing is raw, unfiltered, and relentless. The way Finley captures Walter’s inner turmoil feels painfully real. I could almost hear the silence in the house, the beatings, the slammed doors, and the endless need for comfort that never came. The style is unpolished in the best way. Sentences are jagged, like thoughts gasped out between sobs. I realized it mirrored Walter’s spiraling mind. The story doesn’t offer relief or lightness, and at times, I found myself desperate to look away. But the honesty kept me glued.

What hit me hardest were the moments of yearning. Walter wanting to laugh at dinner. Walter staring at his sister’s shoes, wishing she would speak. Walter clutching a dirty tissue from a kind police officer like it was gold. Those small details broke me more than the violent scenes. I’ll be honest, the mother’s perspective in the later part of the book stirred complicated feelings. I wanted to hate her fully, yet Finley doesn’t let you take the easy way out. Her regrets arrive too late, and they don’t erase what she’s done, but they force you to face the complexity of cruelty born out of misery. It left me unsettled, and I think that’s exactly the point.

By the end, I sat with a heavy chest, not knowing if I felt sad, angry, or just hollow. This isn’t a book for someone looking for comfort or escapism. It’s a story for readers who want to stare straight into the messy reality of trauma and what it does to families. If you can stomach the pain and you’re willing to walk alongside Walter in all his despair and fragile hope, then this book will stay with you long after you close it.

Pages: 42 | ASIN : B0F2GCS2LR