In Author DeskAbout 20 years ago, I experienced something that still makes me shudder: a semi-detached retina. At first, I thought it was just a migraine. Instead, it was a medical emergency that required surgery and days of lying completely still with an eye patch.
During that strange, suspended time, my husband and daughter brought home audiobooks from our local library. I had recently reviewed Allegra Goodman’s novel Intuition, so they chose two of her earlier works: Kaaterskill Falls and The Family Markowitz.
Listening to those novels while confined to the couch turned into one of the most unexpectedly peaceful reading experiences of my life. The stories unfolded slowly, intimately. I was forced to be still, and the books filled that stillness beautifully.
That memory is why I approached Goodman’s newest novel, This Is Not About Us, with hesitation. I didn’t want to disrupt the almost sacred space those earlier works occupied in my mind.
But once I started reading, I realized I had nothing to worry about.
A Return to Familiar Territory
Three Generations, One Family
Allegra Goodman has built her career exploring intense, self-contained worlds. From scientific labs in Intuition to rare book collectors in The Cookbook Collector, to a 16th-century castaway in Isola, she often places her characters in tightly controlled environments.
This Is Not About Us feels different. It returns to the domestic territory she explored 30 years ago in The Family Markowitz. Like that earlier novel, this new book centers on three generations of a Jewish family and unfolds as a series of interconnected stories.
Each chapter shifts focus to a different family member. At first glance, it might seem like a familiar formula. I wondered if Goodman was repeating herself.
Then I kept reading. And then, when I finished, I read it again.
A Deathbed, Wilting Flowers, and a Gathering
The novel opens at the prolonged deathbed of Jeanne Rubenstein, the youngest of three sisters. At 74, she is surrounded by family and by flowers sent by well-meaning neighbors and relatives.
The flowers, rather than comforting her, depress her. Especially the ones already wilting.
There’s something quietly sharp in this opening scene. Jeanne is sardonic, observant, and unsentimental. Her passing feels inevitable, but the real emotional drama begins after her death.
The Apple Cake That Changes Everything
A Small Gesture, A Deep Wound
At Jeanne’s shiva, the extended family gathers. Middle sister Sylvia serves an apple Bundt cake that fills the room with the warm scent of baked fruit and sugar.
The cake recipe originally came from the eldest sister, Helen. But Helen is not known for her baking skills. Sylvia, on the other hand, is gifted in the kitchen.
What could have been a comforting moment turns into a quiet explosion. Helen storms out of the shiva. She refuses to forgive Sylvia for what might seem like a small slight.
But in this family, nothing is small.
Goodman skillfully withholds the full emotional weight of this conflict until the novel’s final pages. What starts as something almost absurd becomes deeply painful and revealing.
Stories That Stand Alone — But Grow Stronger Together
Seventeen Windows Into One Family
The novel’s 17 chapters can function as individual short stories. Each one focuses on a different character and moment in time.
But their true power lies in how they reshape our understanding of one another.
A character who seems cold in one chapter becomes vulnerable in the next. A sibling who appears petty reveals unexpected resilience. Impressions shift. Judgments soften. Resentments deepen.
This layered structure makes the novel feel alive, like a family photo album where every snapshot tells part of the truth but never the whole story.
Meet Pam: Not a Black Hole After All
One of the most moving chapters, titled Deal Breaker, centers on Helen’s older daughter, Pam.
Earlier in the book, Pam is described by another character as a “black hole,” someone who looks at the world skeptically, even critically.
But in her own chapter, we see something entirely different.
Pam is in her early 50s and single. She falls in love with a man who remains deeply committed to his ex-wife and teenage daughter. When she realizes she will never come first in his life, the heartbreak cuts deeply.
In a quiet, emotionally rich scene, Pam struggles to describe her ex-boyfriend’s loyalty. She asks her mother for a word to describe trees that hold onto their leaves through winter.
Helen immediately provides it: marcescent.
That word becomes a turning point. It encapsulates not only the man Pam left behind, but also Helen herself — a woman who holds onto grudges with unshakable clarity.
Yet in this moment, Helen’s rigidity becomes a strength. Pam admires her mother’s decisiveness. Helen never clings. She lets go.
Suddenly, Helen is no longer just difficult. She is crisp, clear, and protective in her own way.
The Art of Holding On and Letting Go
Marcescent as Metaphor
The word marcescent lingers beyond the page. It becomes a quiet metaphor for the novel itself.
Some characters hold tightly to old grievances. Others struggle to release past hurts. The apple cake feud is not just about baking. It’s about recognition, competition, memory, and pride.
Goodman understands that family conflicts are rarely about the surface issue. They are about decades of accumulated emotion.
Through small moments — a recipe, a glance, a single word — she reveals the fragile balance between attachment and independence.
What makes This Is Not About Us so compelling is not dramatic plot twists. It is psychological precision.
Goodman writes with humor and sharp observation. She captures the subtle shifts in tone during family gatherings. The coded language. The way one sibling’s comment can reopen an old wound.
She is deeply curious about how people bound by blood navigate affection and rivalry.
And she never reduces her characters to simple archetypes. Even the most stubborn among them are given moments of tenderness.
A Novel Worth Reading Twice
When I finished This Is Not About Us, I immediately turned back to the first page and began again.
On the second reading, I noticed the delicate threads connecting each chapter. A throwaway comment in one story becomes significant later. A minor character’s gesture gains new meaning.
The novel rewards patience. It rewards attention.
Much like my long-ago days listening to Goodman’s novels while recovering from surgery, this book invites stillness. It asks the reader to slow down and observe.
Why This Novel Feels Timely
In an era dominated by spectacle and urgency, This Is Not About Us focuses on the quiet dramas of ordinary lives.
It reminds us that family dynamics — sibling rivalries, romantic disappointments, parental expectations — remain some of the most powerful forces shaping who we become.
The title itself feels ironic. Of course it is about us. It is about the ways we misunderstand one another. The ways we hold on. The ways we forgive — or refuse to.
Final Thoughts
Allegra Goodman has always possessed psychological acuity, humor, and a fascination with the chemistry of human relationships. In This Is Not About Us, those strengths are on full display.
The novel may appear small in scope. It centers on one extended family and their everyday tensions. But within that contained world lies immense emotional depth.
An apple cake becomes a symbol of pride. A single word becomes a lifeline. A sister’s grudge becomes a shield for her daughter.
Goodman holds fast to what has defined her work from the beginning: a deep understanding of people bound together by love, resentment, loyalty, and history.
This Is Not About Us is a book about family, memory, and the quiet moments that shape us. It is thoughtful, funny, and deeply human.
And like the best family stories, it stays with you long after the final page.
