*Book review: Anika Fajardo’s The Many Mothers of Dolores Moore.
Published by Gallery Books — thank you to the publisher for my gifted book.
Some books roar; this one murmurs in your ear like a memory you didn’t know you had. The Many Mothers of Dolores Moore is a quiet, introspective, and unexpectedly witty novel about grief, identity, and the complicated weight of legacy. Anika Fajardo writes with a warmth that sneaks up on you. One minute you’re in a dusty attic in Minneapolis, the next you’re standing on a street in Cali, Colombia, holding a wrinkled, hand-drawn map and trying to make sense of your life, your lineage, and whether or not ghosts are real—or just projections of your unmet needs. Honestly, it could go either way, and Fajardo leans into that ambiguity beautifully.
Dolores Moore—Dorrie—is 35, recently orphaned for the second time, newly single, freshly laid off, and altogether unmoored. Her two mothers, Jane and Elizabeth, both gone. Her long-term boyfriend, Franklin, also gone (though not dead—just a well-timed breakup). Her job as a cartographer? Poof. She’s left with a large, creaky Victorian house, two elderly orange cats, and a Greek chorus of female relatives in her head. Dead ones. They offer unsolicited commentary on everything from what she should wear to whether she’s wasting her potential. They’re funny, bossy, opinionated, and deeply familiar to anyone who’s ever had a nosy aunt or overbearing grandmother.
The setup is clever, but what keeps you turning pages is the emotional undercurrent. After promising her dying mother she’d return to Colombia—the place she was born but never knew—Dorrie is stuck. She wants to honor the promise, but life keeps giving her reasons not to. It’s only when an old flame volunteers to watch the house (and the cats) that she finally buys a plane ticket and goes. Her mission is simple: follow the map, find the roots. But nothing about this journey is tidy, and that’s exactly what makes it feel true.
There’s a dual timeline structure that alternates between Dorrie in the present and her birth mother Margaret back in 1989. Margaret’s chapters give the novel a heartbeat. She’s vibrant, impulsive, and a little reckless—drawn to Colombia for love, adventure, and escape. It’s bittersweet knowing what’s coming, but watching her fall in love with both a man and a country gives the book a lovely texture. You feel the tension of two women’s lives running parallel across time—one trying to start something, the other trying to make sense of what was left behind.
The magical realism here is understated. Don’t expect spells or levitating tables. It’s more in the feeling—voices from beyond, signs in mango trees, conversations that may or may not be internal. The dead women in Dorrie’s head—her “many mothers”—serve as guides, distractions, guilt trips, and comfort. Sometimes they interrupt. Sometimes they push her forward. Sometimes they just make jokes about her wardrobe. But they’re always there, hovering like memory.
What’s fascinating is that Fajardo doesn’t treat Dorrie’s journey like a straight line. There’s no huge, dramatic epiphany. No single scene where everything shifts. Instead, she gives us a slow unraveling and a subtle re-stitching. Dorrie makes tentative steps toward understanding—about her mother, her father, herself—but it’s never grandiose. It’s real. One step forward, two steps sideways, a bit of a backslide, and a hesitant leap. It’s one of the most honest portrayals of self-discovery I’ve read in a while.
Is it perfect? Not quite. There are moments when the pacing drags—particularly in the first third when Dorrie is spinning her wheels in Minneapolis. The ancestral voices, while charming, sometimes blur together without distinct identities. And a few of the cartography-themed asides, though intellectually interesting, feel shoehorned in rather than organically woven into the plot. Still, these are minor quibbles in a novel that’s more concerned with mood than momentum.
The emotional payoff comes not in a single twist, but in the accumulation of small choices. Dorrie learning how to be in her own skin without needing permission. Dorrie realizing that honoring her mothers doesn’t mean living their lives. Dorrie allowing herself to imagine a future that isn’t built entirely from inherited maps.
Fajardo also deserves credit for representation done right. This is an OwnVoices story featuring an adoptee raised by two women, exploring her Latina identity, reconnecting with her birth roots, and dealing with the complexity of loving a family that wasn’t built the traditional way. There’s space for queerness, for bicultural identity, for grief that isn’t melodramatic, and for healing that doesn’t demand a complete breakdown. It’s hopeful without being saccharine.
The Many Mothers of Dolores Moore is for readers who love stories about women at crossroads, about ghosts that talk (but don’t haunt), and about how sometimes, coming home means leaving it first. It’s for people who like their fiction with a touch of magical realism, a lot of heart, and a chorus of dead women chiming in on every decision.
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ (4 out of 5 stars)
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