I got about half a chapter in before reaching out to one of my very best reader friends, abuzz with excitement: "You know when you start a book, and within a few pages you're already in love with it?" That was how I felt about "Epilogue." The author's grief, confusion and sense of betrayal leapt off the page and buried themselves in my bones, calling forth similar feelings I'd experienced, making me relive them, making me ache for strangers in a memoir I'd only known about for half a minute.
It is one thing for a book to be engaging and relatable. It's quite another for a book to alter my emotional landscape so completely, and to do it with incredible subtlety.
"Epilogue" was an astonishing journey because it shouldn't have been. I opened it with full knowledge that it probably wouldn't be my thing, likely wouldn't speak to me. Father-brother-son relationships rarely do, perhaps because they feel so gendered and, therefore, exclusive. Off limits. But somehow, Will's grief became my grief. His family felt as real to me as my own. All I wanted for him was peace -- peace, and a healthier relationship with himself and his newly discovered siblings. And I had the privilege of feeling all these things amid direct, polished prose, supported by an unusual structure that jumped around in time and jumbled life events in an organic way, just as memories do.
So, I was right after all. Half a chapter was all it took to understand that I would fall in love with this book, and I'd be hard pressed to think of someone to whom I would not recommend it.