There’s something uniquely disorienting about picking up a book and spending the entire reading experience uncertain about exactly what you’re reading. Happy People Don’t Live Here by Amber Sparks left me perpetually questioning whether I was reading middle grade fiction, young adult drama, adult literary fiction, or some hybrid creature that refuses to be categorized. Honestly? I’m still not entirely sure.
The story centers on Fern, a ten-year-old amateur detective who absolutely, definitely does not believe in fairies (except she totally does), and her mother Alice, who has made a lifestyle out of running from something—or someone. When they land at Pine Lake Apartments, a converted sanatorium that feels less like a residential building and more like a repository for misfits and mysteries, Fern’s detective instincts immediately kick into high gear.
What immediately grabbed my attention was the sheer weirdness of Pine Lake’s residents. There’s someone who might be an actual mermaid (or just really committed to the aesthetic), a woman whose brittle bones make her seem made of glass, a novelist whose best work is behind them, and an assortment of what Fern believes to be genuine ghosts. It’s the kind of setup that promises a full ensemble cast of eccentric characters, each with their own fascinating backstory waiting to be uncovered.
And that’s where my first major disappointment emerged. Sparks introduces these intriguing characters but never quite delivers on their potential. The mermaid spends most of her time in bathtubs—is she really aquatic or just committed to an elaborate performance? We never fully find out. The glass woman remains frustratingly underdeveloped despite her compelling condition. These felt like fascinating people who deserved their own stories, reduced instead to atmospheric background decoration.
Fern herself is absolutely captivating. Sparks captures the particular logic of a ten-year-old who’s been forced to grow up faster than she should while still maintaining that childlike capacity for wonder and belief in the impossible. Her investigation methods, borrowed from her beloved girl detective novels, create this lovely tension between genre conventions and the messier reality she’s actually navigating.
The alternating perspectives between Fern and Alice provide necessary context, though they also contribute to the book’s identity crisis. Alice’s sections deal with adult concerns—new relationships, past trauma, the exhausting work of single parenthood while constantly looking over your shoulder. These chapters feel distinctly YA or even adult in their emotional complexity and subject matter.
But then we snap back to Fern’s perspective, and suddenly we’re firmly in middle grade territory, complete with séances organized by helpful handypeople and detective work that involves lots of window-peeking and careful note-taking. The tonal whiplash became genuinely disorienting at times.
The central mystery—Fern witnessing what she believes is a dead body that subsequently disappears—provides solid narrative momentum. Sparks understands how to create suspense and maintain reader investment in uncovering the truth alongside her young detective. The mystery itself is reasonably well-constructed, with enough twists to keep things interesting without becoming impossibly convoluted.
What drove me absolutely crazy throughout my entire reading experience was Sparks’ decision to eschew quotation marks for dialogue. This stylistic choice, which apparently some literary authors believe makes their work more sophisticated, instead made every conversation harder to follow than necessary. I found myself constantly having to pause and reread sections to determine whether someone was speaking aloud, thinking internally, or if I was reading straight narration.
This isn’t just a minor stylistic quirk—it actively interferes with the reading experience, particularly in a book that already struggles with identity and audience questions. When you’re trying to parse whether a line is coming from a ten-year-old or her adult mother, the absence of clear dialogue markers becomes genuinely frustrating rather than artfully ambiguous.
The setting of a former sanatorium with its own cemetery provides perfect atmospheric potential, and Sparks uses it effectively to create an unsettling backdrop for Fern’s investigations. The building itself becomes almost a character, with its history of illness and death bleeding into the present in ways that feel both literal and metaphorical.
Alice’s storyline, involving her reasons for constantly relocating and her attempts to build a new relationship while maintaining her emotional defenses, adds depth that elevates this above simple mystery fare. Her sections exploring the exhausting vigilance required to escape an abusive ex-husband ground the more fantastical elements in genuine emotional stakes.
The resolution of the various plot threads feels satisfying if not entirely surprising. Sparks brings together the mystery elements and character arcs in ways that make sense, though I wished for more closure regarding some of the supporting characters who fascinated me but remained frustratingly underexplored.
Happy People Don’t Live Here ultimately succeeds more as a character study of a mother and daughter navigating trauma and uncertainty than as the full ensemble piece it initially promises to be. If you approach it expecting a richly developed cast of quirky apartment residents, you’ll likely share my disappointment. But if you’re content focusing primarily on Fern and Alice’s relationship and individual journeys, there’s genuine emotional resonance to be found.
For readers who like:
Fans of the Flavia de Luce series seeking something with more fantastical elements, anyone who enjoyed The Miraculous or The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry, readers who appreciate genre-blending fiction, and those who can forgive stylistic choices that prioritize literary convention over reader accessibility.
Final Verdict
Happy People Don’t Live Here is an ambitious debut that doesn’t quite achieve everything it sets out to accomplish. Amber Sparks has created compelling central characters and an intriguing mystery, but the book’s uncertain identity and underdeveloped supporting cast prevent it from reaching its full potential. The absence of quotation marks will frustrate many readers (myself included), but those who can look past stylistic quirks may find a touching story about family, resilience, and the thin line between belief and imagination. It’s good without being great, interesting without being fully satisfying.
Grateful to NetGalley, Dreamscape Media, and Amber Sparks for the opportunity to read an advance copy of this story in exchange for an honest review.