This book will launch on Nov 25, 2019. Currently, only those with the link can see it.🔒

Worth reading 😎

Life is far from perfect and this book is a wonderful capturing of the ups and downs that a full life has to offer.

Synopsis

An impassioned remembrance of betrayal, loss, and the will to survive.

Raised in a world of isolation and burdensome expectations, Anna is unprepared for the life that awaits her. She careens through a succession of lovers, always searching for a sense of belonging.

When she marries Roger, she thinks she's finally found it. But Anna receives a forceful reminder of the scars of her childhood when shattering betrayal throws her happy home into agony and chaos.

Can she find a way to overcome the pain of her past, even as the joy of the present slips away?

Everyone expects life to be a mixture of ups and downs and Anna is certainly no exception to that rule. Daffolions brilliantly mixes together the way the peaks and pits of our lives shape the way we see ourselves.


I love the way this novel starts from the beginning of Anna's life to show readers the trauma she experiences. I found myself rooting for her throughout every moment. From love to motherhood to work to moving across the country, we are brought along the true journey of life.


This book is heartwarming. I think it picks up on the fact that we all expect certain things to go our way and some people just don't have that kind of life. It's a wonderful reminder that within the ups and downs is where we all learn and grow.

Reviewed by

I have been a reader forever. I still hold the record for reading the most books in Grade 1, and I have maintained that momentum. Now, I have a degree in English Literature and share my passion as an English teacher. I also have a blog where I occasionally post book reviews.

Synopsis

An impassioned remembrance of betrayal, loss, and the will to survive.

Raised in a world of isolation and burdensome expectations, Anna is unprepared for the life that awaits her. She careens through a succession of lovers, always searching for a sense of belonging.

When she marries Roger, she thinks she's finally found it. But Anna receives a forceful reminder of the scars of her childhood when shattering betrayal throws her happy home into agony and chaos.

Can she find a way to overcome the pain of her past, even as the joy of the present slips away?

So the molds were formed, the dies cast… 

When I was nine, I bruised my foot by stepping on a jagged stone. In typical childish fashion, I wrapped a jump rope around the foot and held the two rope ends with my hands, limping across the breezeway of our house with my homemade "crutch". Granted I was rather like Sarah Bernhardt (an actress whose name I have often used to mock overly exaggerated performance, except my label for over-dramatization has always been "Sarah Heartburn".) However, I was a kid at the time and not typically given to drama.

My father, noticing my childlike behavior, yelled up to me from his yardwork, "What the hell are you doing?" 

Instantly feeling foolish and embarrassed, I replied ashamedly, "I hurt my foot."

To which Henry snorted with laughter, "That’s stupid. You look ridiculous!"

Stupid. Ridiculous.  

…words I would adopt to describe many of my actions and my very self. The message was clear and understood: Don’t be childish, don’t be silly, and don’t be playful. Be mature, be serious, be quiet. Charting the future course of our children is a frightening responsibility! Sadly, a baby does not exit the womb and hand mom a user manual! Instead, we just forge ahead, flummoxed, with fingers crossed. I know that my parents did what they thought best and would be horrified to read my words today. However, stressing that I should be quiet, serious and mature at all times, and that I should not be silly or playful, molded me into a serious, mature person who neither learned nor valued, and often scoffed at, the art of play. 

I am Anna Park. My life began in 1944 in a small town on the outskirts of Indianapolis, Indiana, to Marie, my then 36-year-old mother, and Henry, my 33-year-old father. My parents had waited ten years before starting a family because of financial hardships borne of World War II and leftover Depression-era concerns. My father, an accountant by education, was extremely frugal, and both of my parents, with roots in lower-middle-class families, had learned the importance of being responsible in their spending. 

As is so often the case, once Henry and Marie agreed the time had come to start a family, Marie could not conceive. Also common, just as the couple began adoption proceedings, Marie became pregnant with me. Two years after I was born, Marie miscarried, and two years later, Marie delivered a second daughter, Diane. Henry had always envisioned having two daughters, reasoning that boys grew up to be "dirty old men", and so his wish for two daughters had come true. I never stopped wondering why he imagined males that way, and I believe his thinking left a lasting impression on me. 

Henry treated me, his firstborn daughter, as though I were a treasured possession to be proudly displayed to his world. When I was just a toddler, he took great pleasure in toting me along to his frequent watering hole, known by all the locals as "The Tavern". While he downed the traditional three, four, or more beers, I would be perched on the bar for all of Henry’s drinking buddies to celebrate, rather like a new tackle box or golf club. An adorable little princess amid a sea of dirty old men! 

A trip to The Tavern was at least a weekly occurrence, and only rarely was Marie invited to accompany Henry. The Tavern was Henry’s domain, where he was held in high esteem, where his newest "accomplishment", his tiny new daughter, was admired and praised. 

Being four years apart in age, my sister and I were not really close and were quite different, as was the parenting of each of us. Much was expected of me, while somewhat less attention was paid to Diane. With such high expectancy concerning me came considerable pressure, both actual and perceived. Pressure to perform. Pressure to be perfect. Diane mostly flew under the radar. And so the molds were formed, the dies cast. For two lifetimes.  

From the beginning, we girls were expected to address our parents as "Daddy" for Henry and "Mother" for Marie. Marie made it clear that she did not care for the designation "Mom", insisting she not be referred to as that. Looking back, I realize it was fitting to call her the more formal "Mother", since the affable, informal terms of "Mommy", "Mom" and "Mama" never would have seemed appropriate. I have always been a bit envious of mother-daughter relationships where the mother is called Mommy or Mama, at times into adulthood. I suppose that sounds silly to some, but I see it as warm and affectionate. I secretly wished that I had seen my mother as "mommy" and that she had wanted to be that to me. 

With each passing year of my childhood and into my teenage years, the expectations increased, as did parental disappointment and recrimination, not to mention my anxiety and ever-sinking self-esteem. From the time I was a tiny child, the messages conveyed to me were always clear and always understood. If I were upset, showed anger (or any emotion), the response from my father was always, "If you’re going to act that way, go to your room!" or "If you’re going to cry, go to your room!" I do not even once recall hearing, "What’s the matter?" or "Honey, why are you so upset?"

The "List of Rules" grew. Lesson learned: Childishness, playfulness, crying or showing any emotion equated to ridiculous, wrong, stupid. No one cared why I was upset or angry or sad or anything. Being emotional required that I stow the feelings on an invisible SHELF which apparently existed somewhere in my room. 

 


About the author

Kat Summer's life has been chock full of travels, adventures, people and places! She loves books, words and the English language. She also has an intense fascination with "strangers" we each pass by daily and never meet and never know. Kat believes that every human has a story worth telling. view profile

Published on May 08, 2019

90000 words

Genre: Women's fiction

Reviewed by

Enjoyed this review?

Get early access to fresh indie books and help decide on the bestselling stories of tomorrow. Create your free account today.

or

Or sign up with an email address

Create your account

Or sign up with your social account