Three More Months
by Sarah Echavarre
Boy, is this book a tearjerker! I knew what I was getting into, as should anyone who willingly picks up Sarah Echavarre’s novel. Obviously the title gives a little indication of the plot: “three more months” means something is over and someone wants more time. The protagonist of this drama is a young woman who prioritizes her work over family. She means well, but she doesn’t call her mother as often as she wants to, and she doesn’t come for visits. Then, her brother calls with terrible news: their mother died of a sudden heart attack.
Consumed with terrible grief, the lead character is in the midst of funeral preparations when she wakes up one morning earlier in the season. Instead of facing an August day to bury her mother, it’s a May morning with her mother still alive. She has three more months to take a vacation from work, spend time with her mother, and hopefully prevent the heart attack. Yes, this is definitely as sad as it sounds. Whether you have a great, close relationship with your mother, or things are more strained than you’d like, this book will have you bawling. Another layer of sadness is the obvious semi-autobiographical nature to the text: without reading the author’s note in the back of the book, I knew the author was truly writing from the heart.
Read if you dare, and have a box of Kleenex beside you. If you don’t think you really need to, though, skip it. Who needs to read something so sad?
Consumed with terrible grief, the lead character is in the midst of funeral preparations when she wakes up one morning earlier in the season. Instead of facing an August day to bury her mother, it’s a May morning with her mother still alive. She has three more months to take a vacation from work, spend time with her mother, and hopefully prevent the heart attack. Yes, this is definitely as sad as it sounds. Whether you have a great, close relationship with your mother, or things are more strained than you’d like, this book will have you bawling. Another layer of sadness is the obvious semi-autobiographical nature to the text: without reading the author’s note in the back of the book, I knew the author was truly writing from the heart.
Read if you dare, and have a box of Kleenex beside you. If you don’t think you really need to, though, skip it. Who needs to read something so sad?