A mother and son, estranged but yearning for reunion, reckon at last with the secret that has kept them apart for decades in this highly anticipated novel by “one of the country’s most talented writers” (Wall Street Journal​)

At forty, Peter, an asylum lawyer in New York City, is overworked and isolated. He spends his days immersed in the struggles of his clients only to return to an empty apartment and occasional hook-ups with a man who wants more than Peter can give. But when the asylum case of a young gay man pierces Peter’s numbness, the event that he has avoided for twenty years returns to haunt him.

Ann, his mother, who runs a women’s retreat center she founded after leaving his father, is wounded by the estrangement from Peter but cherishes the world she has built. She long ago banished from her mind the decision that divided her from her son. But as Peter’s case plunges him further into the memory of his first love and the night of violence that changed his life forever, he and his mother must confront the secret that tore them apart.

With unsurpassed emotional depth, Mothers and Sons reveals all that is lost by looking away from the past and what might be restored by facing it.

You know that feeling when you want to love a book—like, really want to—because the premise hits all the right emotional notes, but the experience just doesn’t land quite the way you’d hoped? That was this book for me. I really wanted to be blown away by it, but in the end, I thought the second half was much stronger than the first half, making it just okay in my opinion.

The story alternates between Peter, a 40-year-old asylum lawyer in New York, and his mother, Ann, a former pastor now running a women’s retreat center in rural Maine. They’re estranged, and there’s a big emotional rift in their past that’s hinted at from the beginning. The tension is set up pretty well. You know something happened, and you’re eager to find out what it was.

But… the first half kind of trudges along. We spend a lot of time in Peter’s head as he works his cases—cases which are noble, sure, and clearly meaningful in a broader political context—but they don’t add much to the emotional core of the story. They’re definitely timely and carry a punch—especially when you consider everything happening now with ICE and deportations in the US—but I kept asking myself, “Okay, but what does this have to do with his relationship with his mom?”

Peter’s world is bleak—isolated, cold, distant—and that’s clearly intentional. He’s emotionally shut down, stuck in a loop of work and anonymous hookups, barely functioning outside his job. While that kind of emotional paralysis is totally believable (and honestly, pretty well-rendered), it also made it hard to connect with him in the beginning. It’s like watching someone sleepwalk through life—and for a while, it feels like the book is sleepwalking, too.

Things finally start to pick up when a past “friendship” from Peter’s high school days gets pulled into the narrative, and things finally begin to take shape. This part of the novel—where we get glimpses of a young, hopeful Peter and the deep emotional rupture that followed—is where the book really shines. You feel Peter’s heartbreak and guilt, and for the first time, the emotional weight of the story clicks into place. It was at this point that the story became intimate and something I could connect with.

Ann’s side of the story is quieter but equally compelling by the end. At first, I didn’t quite know what to make of her chapters—she’s immersed in this kind of woo-woo retreat world that felt a bit disconnected from Peter’s sharp, gritty NYC. In the beginning, I wondered why we even had to bother with her PO, but as her backstory unspools and we see her regrets surface, I found myself more invested in her than I expected to be. Once the big secret between her and Peter comes into full view, everything snaps into focus.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this book wanted to wreck me emotionally, but it just didn’t quite get there. I was expecting something messier, more devastating, more cathartic. Instead, it’s a slow burn that never fully ignited for me. Some readers may love the restraint, but I craved a bit more fire.

So, final verdict? In essence, while thoughtful and well-written, it’s not a book that grabs you by the throat—it’s more of a quiet study in guilt, memory, and the impossibility of truly knowing the people who raised us. It’s got moments of real beauty, especially in the second half, but for me, it never quite hit the emotional highs I was hoping for. I’d still recommend it if you’re into literary fiction with slow pacing and emotional moments, but if you’re looking for something that will grab you from the first chapter, shatter you, and leave you sobbing on the floor, this probably isn’t it.