An exquisite and revelatory debut novel about the devastating consequences of one woman’s affair.

1982. Dawn is a young mother, still adjusting to life with her husband, when Hazel lights up her world like a torch in the dark. Theirs is the kind of connection that’s impossible to resist, and suddenly life is more complicated, and more joyful, than Dawn ever expected. But she has responsibilities and commitments. She has a daughter.

2022. Heron has just received news from his doctor that turns everything upside down. He’s an older man, stuck in the habits of a quiet existence. Telling Maggie, his only child—the person around whom his life has revolved—seems impossible. Heron can’t tell her about his diagnosis, just as he can’t reveal all the other secrets he’s been keeping from her for so many years.

A Family Matter is a heartbreaking and hopeful exploration of love and loss, intimacy and injustice, custody and care, and whether it is possible to heal from the wounds of the past in the changed world of today.

I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect going into this book. I picked it from Book of the Month knowing it had LGBTQIA+ themes and a dual timeline (two things that usually hook me). And while I’m not sorry I read it, I do wish it had been given just a little more room to breathe.

Clocking in at just over 200 pages, this is a quick read, and it is definitely impactful, but I found myself wanting more time with the characters and a deeper exploration of the emotional fallout – especially in the present-day storyline.

The story moves between two timelines: 1982 and 2022.

In 1982, we follow Dawn, a young mother in England who falls in love with another woman, Hazel. The unraveling of who she was always expected to be and who she longs to be upends her marriage, her stability, and ultimately, her right to raise her daughter.

In 2022, we meet Heron, an older man grappling with a life-altering medical diagnosis and the realization that he’s spent decades hiding secrets from his daughter, Maggie.

What really struck me was the heartbreaking reality of Dawn’s situation. When her husband divorces her, not only is she stripped of custody, but she has zero parental rights, because back then, being gay was seen as a threat to a child’s development. Let that sink in. These laws weren’t ancient history. This was within our lifetimes. (And many would love to reinstate them today.)

This part of the story is gutting, and Lynch handles it with quiet grace. There’s a restraint to her writing that feels intentional, but sometimes that restraint also made the book feel like it was holding back a little too much. I wanted to feel more. I didn’t quite get there—especially in the 2022 timeline.

Heron’s chapters are more introspective. He’s not the easiest character to connect with, but he’s believable. His fear, his regret, his inability to be honest with his daughter. It all feels very human, but, again, I wanted more.

I guess that’s kind of the theme here: I liked what I got, but I wanted more. The dual timeline structure works well, and the themes—love, secrecy, identity, injustice—are rich and timely. But the emotional payoff felt slightly muted. Not empty, just incomplete.

That said, this is a worthwhile read. It’s short, accessible, and offers a tender, though painful glimpse into how far we’ve come—and how far we still have to go. If you’re looking for a brief but thoughtful LGBTQIA+ story with emotional resonance, this one’s worth picking up, especially if you’re looking for a short, reflective read. Just go in knowing it’s more of a whisper than a scream.

Book Club/Book Box: