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Comfrey, Wyoming Book 4: Black Sheep, Black Sheep
Black Sheep, Black Sheep, the fourth book in the Comfrey, Wyoming series by Daphne Birkmyer, is a layered family novel that follows intertwined lives shaped by love, secrecy, disability, and belonging. The story moves between past and present, with a strong focus on Melissa McNabb and the people orbiting her world, from siblings and parents to lovers, friends, and the quiet town that absorbs them all. It explores what family really means, how truth surfaces whether invited or not, and how difference can be both a burden and a gift.
What struck me first was the writing itself. It feels intimate and patient. The prose slows down when it needs to. It lingers on small moments. A look, a gesture, a habit. I felt close to these characters very quickly. Melissa especially stayed with me. Her inner world is rendered with care and respect, and I felt protective of her almost right away. The author never rushes her. That choice made me emotional more than once. I found myself smiling at her sharp humor and aching during her quieter struggles.
The ideas in this book landed hard for me. It takes on autism, family secrets, chosen family, and loyalty without preaching. It trusts the reader. I liked that nothing was neat. People mess up. They love fiercely and badly at the same time. I felt anger toward some choices and deep empathy for others. The theme of being the odd one out hit close to home. The black sheep idea is not just symbolic. It feels lived in.
Like Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine, this book feels quieter and more grounded. Where Eleanor Oliphant uses sharp humor and big emotional swings, Black Sheep, Black Sheep slowly reveals its heart in smaller, steadier moments. I would recommend Black Sheep to readers who love character-driven stories and emotional realism. It is a good fit for people who enjoy family sagas, small-town settings, and emotional books that make you think. It is especially meaningful for readers interested in neurodivergent characters written with warmth and depth.
Pages: 450 | ASIN : B0FY8W9LGM
The Seven
Igor Stefanovic’s The Seven begins as a vivid family drama wrapped in mystery and tension, and it quickly evolves into something much larger. The story follows the Meyer siblings —seven of them —each scattered across continents after their father, Abraham, sets them on a strange quest to find sculptures that represent the purity of love. The setup feels biblical, almost mythic, but the execution is modern and cinematic. From luxury yachts and family mansions to deserts and laboratories, Stefanovic paints a sweeping world filled with ego, guilt, ambition, and buried love. The tone shifts from thriller to introspection and back again, and by the end, it feels like the first act of a much grander saga.
The writing is rich and immersive, the kind that drops you right into a scene with the scent of bourbon, the thrum of a yacht party, the quiet wheeze of an oxygen tank. It’s hard not to feel something for Abraham, the dying patriarch, trying to shake his spoiled children awake. Stefanovic writes him with compassion and grit. The dialogue, though occasionally heavy, feels raw and lived-in. Some parts hit hard, like watching someone confess a lifetime of regret.
The ideas in The Seven stuck in my head. It’s about privilege and purpose, about how easy it is to lose your soul when you’ve never had to fight for it. I found myself angry at the characters but also weirdly protective of them. Stefanovic’s sense of irony is sharp, and he never lets anyone off easy. The emotional punches are subtle at first and then land all at once, like waves catching you when you’re not ready. Sometimes the prose feels indulgent, but then it snaps back with a line so clear it cuts. I liked that unpredictability.
I’d recommend The Seven to readers who enjoy family epics with emotional weight and moral complexity. If you like stories that mix glamour with existential dread, this one’s for you. The writing has heart and ambition, and it always reaches for something real.
Pages: 511 | ASIN : B0FQJNYQHF
Tequila
Tequila follows generations of the Ramirez family, from Sotero’s gamble on aging tequila in the 1950s Jaliscan Highlands to the modern corporate empire known as RAM Industries. What begins as a tale of sweat, soil, and ambition slowly becomes a saga of family betrayal, violence, and power. Across decades, we watch tequila move from rustic distilleries into the bloodstream of global trade, all while the Ramirez family wrestles with love, greed, and blood feuds that never seem to fade. It is a story that swings between passion and brutality, family devotion and ruthless ambition.
I admired the way author Tim Reuben captures place, especially the Mexican highlands where Sotero’s first plants take root. Those early chapters breathe with heat and dust, the struggle of a farmer dreaming big. Then, almost suddenly, the narrative shifts to boardrooms and courtrooms, and it struck me how ambition hardens with each generation. I found myself both hooked and unsettled. The violence was raw, sometimes shocking, yet it felt earned, a natural extension of the world Reuben built.
The writing itself is quick, sharp, and often cinematic. The dialogue snaps, the scenes cut hard, and there is little handholding. I enjoyed that rhythm because it gave the book urgency. But I also caught myself wishing for pauses, more room to breathe, especially when the story moved into modern-day plots with kidnappings, corporate lawyers, and family infighting. Still, I admired the boldness. Reuben doesn’t play it safe. He tells a story that spills over with energy, grit, and heat.
I’d recommend Tequila to readers who enjoy family sagas laced with crime, corporate drama, and old-world passion. Tequila felt like a mix of The Godfather’s family drama, the cutthroat energy of Succession, and the grit of Narcos, all poured together into one fiery shot of a story.
Pages: 407 | ASIN : B0FDH5FYHM
Becoming Sarah
The story follows Sarah, a girl born in Auschwitz, who grows up amid the ruins of war and memory. From her survival as a baby in impossible conditions to her complicated relationships with families, lovers, and the ghosts of her past, the novel stretches across decades. It is a portrait of a life shaped by trauma yet driven by the relentless pull of love, survival, and identity. The book traces how one woman carries both the horror and the humor of her history, and how those who come after her must reckon with what remains.
Reading this book was not easy, and I don’t think it was meant to be. The writing felt raw and startlingly alive. Sometimes the prose slowed me down with its density, but I kept going because every page had something sharp and true. I loved how the author wasn’t afraid to mix beauty with ugliness. She gave me moments of dark humor right after scenes that tore at me. The characters were flawed, sometimes unlikeable, yet unforgettable. Sarah, especially, lingered in my head long after I closed the book.
There were also times I felt overwhelmed. The shifts between past and present, memory and dream, tested me as a reader. But maybe that was the point. Trauma doesn’t follow neat lines. The way Botnick wrote mirrored the chaos of living with scars you can’t see. And when I let myself stop fighting the structure, I found myself swept into it. I laughed in places I didn’t expect, and I cried in places I thought I wouldn’t.
I came away from Becoming Sarah feeling both heavy and strangely hopeful. This isn’t a typical Holocaust novel. It’s about the long aftershocks, the way history worms its way into kitchens, bedrooms, and even jokes. I’d recommend it to anyone who wants to feel a story as much as read it, especially those who care about how the past seeps into family, motherhood, and love.
Pages: 347 | ASIN : B0DVCX64WV
Priscilla Speaks
Priscilla Speaks is a raw and moving novel about a young girl born into the harshest corners of Appalachian poverty. The story begins before Priscilla’s birth, with her mother, Blaize, a fierce and wounded woman, doing whatever she can to care for her children and survive in a world that gives her nothing. We follow Priscilla as she grows up in the town of Bilbo, navigating her family’s deep dysfunction, community violence, and the emotional scars passed down from one generation to the next. Robinson crafts a brutal yet intimate look into this young girl’s life as she slowly begins to understand who she is, who her family really is, and how to carve her own place in a world that keeps trying to swallow her whole.
The writing is bold and fearless, with a rhythm that swings between lyrical and gritty. The dialogue feels authentic. The world is murky and tough. The people are full of contradictions. Blaize, for instance, is both the villain and the savior in her children’s lives. Her pain is palpable, but she also passes that pain along. It made me uncomfortable more than once, and that’s a compliment. As a reader, I felt like I was sitting on the edge of a splintered porch with these characters, watching lives unravel and harden, sometimes all in the same breath.
What really stayed with me, though, was Priscilla’s voice. She doesn’t say much, but her silence is louder than everyone else’s shouting. Her mind is sharp. She sees through people. She aches to be seen herself. And when she finally acts, whether it’s to cut off her hair or confront someone who’s hurt her brother, it never feels like a big triumph. It just feels necessary. The author never turns her into a cartoon hero. She’s messy and guarded and real. And the book respects that. The pacing slows in a few places, and some characters feel like they pop in just to fill a theme. But it doesn’t matter much because the emotions land hard.
I’d recommend Priscilla Speaks to anyone who’s tired of polished stories and wants something jagged and honest. It’s not a light read. But it tells the truth in a way that sticks. If you grew up poor, or close to someone who did, you’ll recognize the ache in these pages. And if you didn’t, it’ll open your eyes to what strength and survival really look like.
Pages: 332 | ASIN : B0FB43QHG1
LITERARY TITAN 