Some books shake you to your core—not because they’re shocking, but because they’re true. “Mad Woman” is one of those books. It’s unsettling, emotional, and impossible to forget. It’s packaged as a murder mystery, but let me tell you now: this is not a whodunit. This is a raw, unflinching look at trauma, motherhood, and the weight of a past you can never quite outrun.  

The story follows Clove, a woman juggling the exhausting demands of motherhood while carrying the invisible scars of her childhood. She has spent years burying her past, refusing to speak of it—even to her loving husband. But then a letter arrives from prison. Her estranged mother, who killed Clove’s abusive father, is asking for forgiveness. She wants Clove to bear witness, to help prove that what she did was self-defense.  

This one letter cracks open everything Clove has tried to keep locked away. Memories of her father’s violence, the helplessness of her childhood, and the deep, nagging fear that she might become like him. The way she talks to herself, the way she second-guesses her every move as a mother, hit me hard. Because isn’t that what so many of us do? Wonder if we’re doing enough, if we’re breaking cycles or unknowingly continuing them?  

What I love about this book is that it doesn’t shy away from the ugly parts of survival. It doesn’t try to package abuse into something digestible or turn it into a love story like “It Ends With Us” did. And look, I liked “It Ends With Us” when I first read it too. But the more I sat with it, the more I realized how dangerous it is to frame stories of domestic violence in a way that makes them feel romantic. “Mad Woman” doesn’t do that. It makes you sit with the discomfort, with the reality of what it means to survive and still carry the ghosts of your past.  

Another thing that stood out to me was how the book explores the way women are forced to shape their own stories to be believed. Clove’s mother spent years hiding the truth of her abuse, and when she finally fought back, she became the villain. And isn’t that the way the world often works? Women are expected to endure, to stay silent, to survive quietly. But the moment they fight back, their stories are questioned.  

There’s also a quiet but sharp commentary on social media—how we curate our lives, filter our pain, and present only the best, most polished versions of ourselves. Even when our lives feel like they’re crumbling, we still find ways to make them look beautiful on the outside. It’s something I think about a lot.  

I don’t know if I can say I “enjoyed” this book, because it’s not the kind of story you enjoy. But I felt it. Deeply. And I know I’ll be thinking about it for a long time.  

So if you’re looking for something raw, something that doesn’t sugarcoat trauma but instead forces you to sit with it, read this book. Read it for the women who’ve had to fight to be heard. Read it for the conversations we “should” be having about domestic abuse, generational trauma, and the impossible weight of being a mother in a world that never makes space for them.  

And when you’re done, let’s talk about it. Because stories like this deserve to be heard.