⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
I Don’t Like Mondays by Maria Frankland — and honestly, after reading this, same.
This book sucked me in faster than my kids spotting me trying to pee alone. The emotions, the questions, the confusion, the secrets — it’s like Maria handed me a ticket to a rollercoaster I did not sign up for, but still willingly sat in the front row, hands up, screaming.
It’s fast-paced, easy to read, and I inhaled it in one sitting. Not because I’m disciplined, but because I physically couldn’t leave without knowing everything. And somewhere around chapter whatever, I started spiraling:
What would I do if I woke up one day and couldn’t remember the last ten years?
Would I be proud of myself? Horrified? Slightly amused?
Would you be happy with you?
And of course, being a mother, it hit me right in that soft part of my chest — the one your kids use as a trampoline. It reminded me how your kids honestly don’t care if you live in a wooden cottage, a shiny mansion, or a cardboard box as long as you’re there with them. Time > luxury. (Look at me, turning a thriller review into life advice. Somebody stop me.)
Anyway — I’m drifting, which is exactly what this book made me do inside my own head.
Maria did it again. She made me feel like I was part of the struggle. I was right there, trying to get well, trying to piece together the truth, trying not to throw hands at certain characters.
Sure, I figured out who did it early on — but the drama, the guessing, the trust issues, the “wait… WHAT?” moments? Delicious. Absolutely delicious.
Four stars because it was emotional, chaotic in the best way, and made me think about identity, motherhood, and the questionable things we’d do just to be seen, heard, understood… or to protect what we love.
Loved it. Even the parts that stressed me out.