slim, light tale about a 30 year old taking a year off from her life to care for her father with newly-diagnosed Alzheimer. it was too sad where it didn't have to be (a 30 yo with pretty much no prospects and, for most of the novel, no ambitions) and awfully cheerful in spots where it shouldn't be (duh - the Alzheimer). I think I blame Sally Rooney who popularised protagonists in perpetual young-adulthood that don't achieve any revelation or closure or even movement in their relationships. (wait, this book was published before Normal People so that's not fair) But seriously, there does seem to be a trend of keeping the protagonist vague and not too-reactive in order to fake, to the reader, that they are processing some deep feelings. well, if it was my job to to fill in the main character's interior life, it did not work. she just seemed absolutely unrelatable to me, and even if you drop your life to follow a guy to another state, there had to be moments in there where reflection happened; a job only takes so many hours a day and they didn't have pets or children, or a crises to distract from said refection. cripes! is this how the younger generation is sleep walking thru their lives?