Harriet Henderson is one of those characters you don’t immediately like — and then suddenly, you can’t stop thinking about her.
Abrasive, blunt and rigid, she’s a 52-year-old widow who lives by rules, routines, and a very narrow view of how the world should behave.
Particularly in the opening chapters, she’s difficult, judgemental, and emotionally closed off… and yet, that’s exactly what makes her so compelling.
Because it quickly becomes clear that Harriet isn’t unkind by nature — she’s learned it.
Her behaviour is conditioned, shaped and inherited.
Her late husband Les still lives rent free in her head, still issuing rules, still setting boundaries for a life that no longer exists.
Her dog Bibbo is the centre of her world, and when her neighbour Kevin refuses to leash his dog Rocky, Harriet goes to war via the home owners association with a ferocity that feels ridiculous… until you realise it was never really about the dog.
As new neighbours Chris and Robyn Carter and their daughter Audrey move in across the street, Harriet’s carefully controlled world starts to fracture.
Slowly, unwillingly, she becomes entangled in their lives — helping Robyn seek support, protecting Audrey, and in the process being forced to confront her own past, her own trauma, and the emotional architecture of her own marriage.
What starts as a sharp, character-driven, slightly quirky story quietly takes off its cardigan and reveals teeth.
This book handles the theme of abuse with real care and intelligence.
There’s a clear trigger warning here — not physical abuse, but emotional and verbal abuse — and the novel does something important by showing how devastating and insidious that kind of control can be.
The isolation, the rules, the erosion of identity, the way it traps women in relationships that don’t leave bruises but leave scars all the same.
It’s handled without melodrama, without spectacle, and somehow that makes it hit harder. The realisation sneaks up on you: this book has been setting you up all along, and you fall for it willingly.
There’s poignancy, warmth, and a deep undercurrent of sadness here, but also humour, heart, and real emotional payoff.
Harriet’s journey is one of redemption and second chances — not in a glossy, sentimental way, but in a quiet, human one.
She learns that rules don’t protect you from everything. That honesty isn’t always safety. That control isn’t the same as love.
At its core, Harriet Hates Lemonade is about resilience, growth, and the slow unlearning of harm.
It’s about connection. It’s about kindness arriving from unexpected places. And it’s about a woman learning — late, imperfectly, bravely — how to live differently.
Smart, sharp, and sneakily powerful, this is a novel that starts small and ends deep. Funny when you least expect it, devastating when you’re not ready, and emotionally generous without ever being soft.
A quietly brilliant four-star read that refuses to stay in the neat little box you put it in.
With thanks to the publishers for an ARC in exchange for an honest review.