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Mass Mothering
A haunting, indelible novel of collective grief, resistance, and the radical, life-affirming virtue of testimony
A. is an amateur translator, living alone in an unforgiving, late-capitalist metropolis. Adrift and burdened by debt following a medical trauma, she makes rent caring for a young boy who is not and could never be her own. Her nights are spent on the dance floor, chasing spontaneous connection. There, she encounters N., who shares her numbed state and sometimes her bed.
Among N.’s meager possessions, A. comes across a slim book about an unnamed foreign town of disappearing boys. The book, Field Notes, documents the stories of a community of mothers who assemble to mourn their missing sons together. A. is transfixed by this collective chorus of primal grief, the mothers’ preternatural strength, and their intuitive care for each other. When a near-assault stuns A. out of her inertia, she takes off for the city where Field Notes was written in search of its author and the end of his story. But A.’s digging leads her instead to the traces of a murdered poet, a mysterious woman whose legacy will intersect unexpectedly and pivotally with A.’s own life.
Poignant and profoundly humane, Mass Mothering is told through layered voices, written fragments, and recorded testimonies. It is a luminous story of the mutuality of grief, the aftershocks of violence in a globalized era, and the world-bending force of a mother’s love.
A. is an amateur translator, living alone in an unforgiving, late-capitalist metropolis. Adrift and burdened by debt following a medical trauma, she makes rent caring for a young boy who is not and could never be her own. Her nights are spent on the dance floor, chasing spontaneous connection. There, she encounters N., who shares her numbed state and sometimes her bed.
Among N.’s meager possessions, A. comes across a slim book about an unnamed foreign town of disappearing boys. The book, Field Notes, documents the stories of a community of mothers who assemble to mourn their missing sons together. A. is transfixed by this collective chorus of primal grief, the mothers’ preternatural strength, and their intuitive care for each other. When a near-assault stuns A. out of her inertia, she takes off for the city where Field Notes was written in search of its author and the end of his story. But A.’s digging leads her instead to the traces of a murdered poet, a mysterious woman whose legacy will intersect unexpectedly and pivotally with A.’s own life.
Poignant and profoundly humane, Mass Mothering is told through layered voices, written fragments, and recorded testimonies. It is a luminous story of the mutuality of grief, the aftershocks of violence in a globalized era, and the world-bending force of a mother’s love.
272 pages, Hardcover
Published February 3, 2026
About the author
Sarah Bruni
2 books58 followersSarah Bruni is a graduate of the University of Iowa and the MFA program at Washington University in St. Louis. She has roots in Chicago, has taught creative writing in St. Louis, volunteered as a writing and English tutor in San Francisco, and Montevideo, Uruguay, and currently lives in Brooklyn. The Night Gwen Stacy Died is her first novel.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 104 reviews
July 3, 2025
I read this all in one go, except for a few hours of sleep. I rescheduled a meeting in order to finish it. I got the alert from NetGalley that I had been approved to read it just as I was finishing up another book. I didn't even stop to read the description. I just started reading it, so I didn't know what it was about, or even the genre.
This book was so well written. I have a Keep note where I save quotes from books, movies, humans. I opened it a lot during this reading. I would put one of my favorites here, but I absolutely don't want to give anything away. I would love it if you could jump in, as I did, knowing nothing.
I normally end my reviews by saying "if you like book X, Y, or Z you'll probably like this one. I'm not going to do that here. If you love words, ideas, feelings, this might be the book for you. I don't give these 5 stars lightly, just so you know.
This book was so well written. I have a Keep note where I save quotes from books, movies, humans. I opened it a lot during this reading. I would put one of my favorites here, but I absolutely don't want to give anything away. I would love it if you could jump in, as I did, knowing nothing.
I normally end my reviews by saying "if you like book X, Y, or Z you'll probably like this one. I'm not going to do that here. If you love words, ideas, feelings, this might be the book for you. I don't give these 5 stars lightly, just so you know.
March 25, 2026
What a powerful, original book--political and deeply personal at the same time.
At first, it seems to be the story of women like the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo in Argentina--the group that began publicly gathering in the 1970s to protest the "disappearance" of their children during the military dictatorship of that time. Simply yet beautifully written in a sometimes collective third-person voice, it mingles individual stories with general advice and emotions.
The stories are supposedly field notes from interviews by a now-deceased academic named Tomas Petritus, as translated by a young woman known as A.
Just as I was thinking, "This is beautiful and interesting, and it's certainly important to hear these women's testimony, but how much more can this group say about what they miss of their old lives and how their husbands left them?"--the book takes one of several turns.
Now it moves into A's life, and another form of loss: An emergency hysterectomy has chopped off A's ability to feel deep emotions, as well as her ability to have children. For instance, when a young man named N wants to push their tacitly agreed-to boundaries, she runs away.
In only 249 pages, this amazing novel continues to weave in and out of plot twists and to probe loneliness and loss in all sorts of manifestations--loss of children and of homeland; lack of a common language; assaults both emotional and physical. Disappearance and death. Loss of mother from the child's point of view. Loss of what had grounded you.
In only a handful of words --a set of the eyes, an awkward steering of a bike-- a select few of the women and girls become fully alive.
The author's spare writing style will not be for everyone, and I can also see that readers might be confused by the switches in narrative line. I happen to love this way of writing!
At first, it seems to be the story of women like the Mothers of Plaza de Mayo in Argentina--the group that began publicly gathering in the 1970s to protest the "disappearance" of their children during the military dictatorship of that time. Simply yet beautifully written in a sometimes collective third-person voice, it mingles individual stories with general advice and emotions.
The stories are supposedly field notes from interviews by a now-deceased academic named Tomas Petritus, as translated by a young woman known as A.
Just as I was thinking, "This is beautiful and interesting, and it's certainly important to hear these women's testimony, but how much more can this group say about what they miss of their old lives and how their husbands left them?"--the book takes one of several turns.
Now it moves into A's life, and another form of loss: An emergency hysterectomy has chopped off A's ability to feel deep emotions, as well as her ability to have children. For instance, when a young man named N wants to push their tacitly agreed-to boundaries, she runs away.
In only 249 pages, this amazing novel continues to weave in and out of plot twists and to probe loneliness and loss in all sorts of manifestations--loss of children and of homeland; lack of a common language; assaults both emotional and physical. Disappearance and death. Loss of mother from the child's point of view. Loss of what had grounded you.
In only a handful of words --a set of the eyes, an awkward steering of a bike-- a select few of the women and girls become fully alive.
The author's spare writing style will not be for everyone, and I can also see that readers might be confused by the switches in narrative line. I happen to love this way of writing!
February 3, 2026
I requested this for its intriguing synopsis, and I'm glad I did. The writing - a mix of prose and field notes interviews - kept the pace moving. The format took some getting used to, but it paid off.
The author presented deeper themes of loss that hit hard: mothers who lost their sons to violence, a government that looks the other way, and the loss of having the chance to be a mother. These themes unfolded through A's research journey as she learned more about the Field Notes author and the people they interviewed. It all seemed unending, yet the author rounded it beautifully in the end.
The themes of maternal loss stayed with me long after I finished. I wanted to connect more with A though, which kept this at 4 stars for me.
If you're drawn to experimental fiction exploring grief and motherhood, this is worth your time.
Thanks to Henry Holt and Co. for the advance copy.
March 8, 2026
Reading this felt like eavesdropping on someone’s late-night conversation with God. Def worth a read!
Read
January 8, 2026Two stories unfold in conversation with one another: a woman named simply A. lives her life in a city in which she didn’t grow up, spends her nights dancing at bars, nannies a rambunctious child, and recovers from an operation that removed her reproductive organs while building a tenuous relationship with a man called N.
Meanwhile, we read excerpts from a book, ‘Field Notes’ by Tomas Petritus, which recounts the mothers of missing children as they congregate and speak out against government violence in N.’s home country. A. discovers this book one night, compelled by the true crime narrative, and eventually sets out to translate the text and uncover the truth behind these mothers’ stories.
What she finds will have her considering what it means to be a mother, the profound effects of grief, and the risk of raising our voice in the face of state violence.
This is a quiet novel about heavy topics. But all of the action happens off the page, and we, along with the narrator, are left to observe from a distance the effects of these impactful moments. We don’t necessarily experience them ourselves, just as with history we can only look back and try to understand what went on, who was affected, and what it all means.
I appreciated this approach; rather than turning this into a violent, plot-driven story about government violence, it shows how powerful people, especially men, can make decisions, often on a whim, that ripple out and touch so many lives, often for the worse. It creates a chorus of voices, of female voices, that echo across time and space to tell a similar story, regardless of borders, background or birthplace.
Meanwhile, we read excerpts from a book, ‘Field Notes’ by Tomas Petritus, which recounts the mothers of missing children as they congregate and speak out against government violence in N.’s home country. A. discovers this book one night, compelled by the true crime narrative, and eventually sets out to translate the text and uncover the truth behind these mothers’ stories.
What she finds will have her considering what it means to be a mother, the profound effects of grief, and the risk of raising our voice in the face of state violence.
This is a quiet novel about heavy topics. But all of the action happens off the page, and we, along with the narrator, are left to observe from a distance the effects of these impactful moments. We don’t necessarily experience them ourselves, just as with history we can only look back and try to understand what went on, who was affected, and what it all means.
I appreciated this approach; rather than turning this into a violent, plot-driven story about government violence, it shows how powerful people, especially men, can make decisions, often on a whim, that ripple out and touch so many lives, often for the worse. It creates a chorus of voices, of female voices, that echo across time and space to tell a similar story, regardless of borders, background or birthplace.
February 12, 2026
I’m not even sure how to describe MASS MOTHERING by Sarah Bruni as it’s like nothing I’ve ever read before. I was quite mesmerized by this story, and immediately intrigued by the opening storyline about the town of disappearing boys and the mothers who would not give up on them.
The novel then changes course and the reader meets a single woman referred to as A. who cares for a young boy by day and then can be found on a random club’s dance floor at night, searching for deep connection. She meets a man who is identified as N. and the story really takes off after that.
How the town of disappearing boys, the grieving mothers, and A.’s paths collide absolutely floored me, and brought on a surprising reveal that I did not see coming. For a novel on the shorter side—just around 270 pages—it sure packs a punch. The pace is on the slower side, but the plot is solid and branches off in the most unexpected directions.
QUICK SYNOPSIS:
𝘈 𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧, 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭, 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦-𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘺. 𝘗𝘰𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘦, 𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘔𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘴, 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘳𝘢, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥-𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦.
READ THIS IF YOU ENJOY:
- Insight on motherhood
- Reflections on loss and grief
- Mystery and intrigue
- Unique storytelling and formats
- Slow-moving pace
- Heavy topics
- Character-driven novels
- Relationships and human connection
If you’re looking for a unique read that you can totally get lost in, MASS MOTHERING is it. Bruni is an author who I’ll be keeping an eye out for. Her writing is exquisite.
The novel then changes course and the reader meets a single woman referred to as A. who cares for a young boy by day and then can be found on a random club’s dance floor at night, searching for deep connection. She meets a man who is identified as N. and the story really takes off after that.
How the town of disappearing boys, the grieving mothers, and A.’s paths collide absolutely floored me, and brought on a surprising reveal that I did not see coming. For a novel on the shorter side—just around 270 pages—it sure packs a punch. The pace is on the slower side, but the plot is solid and branches off in the most unexpected directions.
QUICK SYNOPSIS:
𝘈 𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧, 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭, 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦-𝘢𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘷𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘺. 𝘗𝘰𝘪𝘨𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘦, 𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘴 𝘔𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘷𝘰𝘪𝘤𝘦𝘴, 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘪𝘦𝘴. 𝘐𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘢 𝘭𝘶𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘶𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘧, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘣𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘦𝘳𝘢, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥-𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳’𝘴 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦.
READ THIS IF YOU ENJOY:
- Insight on motherhood
- Reflections on loss and grief
- Mystery and intrigue
- Unique storytelling and formats
- Slow-moving pace
- Heavy topics
- Character-driven novels
- Relationships and human connection
If you’re looking for a unique read that you can totally get lost in, MASS MOTHERING is it. Bruni is an author who I’ll be keeping an eye out for. Her writing is exquisite.
March 8, 2026
Care works in direct opposition to abuses of power designed to divide people. -Sarah Bruni
just thoughts. no review forthcoming.
just thoughts. no review forthcoming.
March 20, 2026
Stylistically different (in a good way) and ultimately quite moving…but it takes some time to figure out the story and to piece together the multiple narratives. I can imagine some readers getting frustrated by the deliberate ambiguities the author leaves unexplained, but the universality and relevance of the novel’s themes can’t be argued with.
Read
January 18, 2026This novel uses an unusually fragmented structure utilizing short chapters consisting of archival material along with translations, field notes and first-person narratives. By creating a prismatic effect, this layered structure amplifies the novel’s core themes: grief, maternal care, collective trauma, and the importance of testimony. Clearly, Bruni’s intention is to encourage her readers to piece together meaning in the mosaic she creates, rather than follow a conventional linear plot. Notwithstanding this interesting intellectual approach, the novel never really engages with the reader. Its constant shifts in voice and reliance on initials rather than fully realized characters make the novel seem abstract instead of intimate.
Bruni’s prose is well controlled and thoughtful, yet the fragmented structure she adopts detracts from that achievement, leaving the reader with the sense of an exercise in investitive journalism rather than a lived narrative. Her goal of recreating the personal experience of mothers of disappeared children under oppressive societies is commendable but falls short because it offers much to contemplate but few characters to care about.
Bruni’s prose is well controlled and thoughtful, yet the fragmented structure she adopts detracts from that achievement, leaving the reader with the sense of an exercise in investitive journalism rather than a lived narrative. Her goal of recreating the personal experience of mothers of disappeared children under oppressive societies is commendable but falls short because it offers much to contemplate but few characters to care about.
August 18, 2025
3.5 This book is about grief and tyranny. How does the mass disappearance of their children affect the thoughts and actions of their mothers? The book has two major story lines. The chapters labeled Field Notes are Tomas Petritus's story of going to the main city of an unnamed country to interview women whose sons have disappeared. Most of the disappeared appear to be boys who may have been considered political rebels (although some appear too young for that). Then there is A., a young woman who decides to translate the unpublished Field Notes by Petritus, who has since died. A. is a highly educated woman who leaves her job to as a caregiver for a sweet boy who struggles with many aspects of living. A. often goes out dancing with N., who is originally from the country of the disappeared boys. A. finds Field Notes and sets to work. The chapters go back and forth between A.'s story and Field Notes. At times this can become confusing so pay particular attention to the chapter headings!
In the acknowledgements, the author thanks those who helped in her research in Uruguay (Montevideo) and Columbia (Medellin), including the Madres de la Candelaria.
In the acknowledgements, the author thanks those who helped in her research in Uruguay (Montevideo) and Columbia (Medellin), including the Madres de la Candelaria.
January 12, 2026
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ 4/5 ty @henryholt
A woman named A. spends her days as a nanny and her nights on the dance floor. A. discovers a book called “Field Notes” containing the testimonies of mothers whose sons have disappeared, probably due to government violence. A. decides to translate the text and try to uncover what happened to the missing boys. I read this back in November and really enjoyed it, although I am struggling to remember some plot elements two months later.
A woman named A. spends her days as a nanny and her nights on the dance floor. A. discovers a book called “Field Notes” containing the testimonies of mothers whose sons have disappeared, probably due to government violence. A. decides to translate the text and try to uncover what happened to the missing boys. I read this back in November and really enjoyed it, although I am struggling to remember some plot elements two months later.
April 6, 2026
The best book I've read this year so far.
What I thought was going to be a dystopian novel turned into a heartbreaking love letter to immigrants, motherhood, one's own body and trauma.
Reading what ends up feeling like two diaries, you're immersed in a past time of a foreign country and the loneliness of existing in a contemporary city.
I won't spoil this book because it deserves to be read, but the author's unique storytelling approach made this a quick, compelling read that will make you want to call your mom.
What I thought was going to be a dystopian novel turned into a heartbreaking love letter to immigrants, motherhood, one's own body and trauma.
Reading what ends up feeling like two diaries, you're immersed in a past time of a foreign country and the loneliness of existing in a contemporary city.
I won't spoil this book because it deserves to be read, but the author's unique storytelling approach made this a quick, compelling read that will make you want to call your mom.
March 8, 2026
Ok. So, I loved this book. Straight to the point. Told a great story without dragging it out. Everything had a purpose and it kept me engaged from the start. I laughed out loud many times while also finding it thought provoking and curious. The style took me a smidge to get used to but once I did it took off. All this from a giveaway. 🫶
April 29, 2026
One of the best books I've read in a long time. 🥹🥹🥹 I'm speechless
March 7, 2026
A strangely beautiful, haunting book about collective grief, the power of testimony , and the pull of a mother’s love. It’s a mix of first person prose from A., a translator, and a selection of entries from the book she’s translating, Field Notes. I found it deeply unsettling to not know where the book was set, but I think that was intentional. I feel like it was Argentina, because of the disappeared/missing people and grieving, angry mothers, but the power of the story is that it could be anywhere. Really beautiful writing and the plot moved at a steady pace.
March 6, 2026
such a unique reading experience!! makes a lot of sense to me that the author has a degree in latin american studies bc the plot so clearly draws upon argentina’s dirty war and the mothers of the plaza del mayo. interesting to see these historical trends explored through a more apocalyptic/dystopian lens.
March 23, 2026
🐌 Slow burn, meant to be digested not devoured
🪡 Braided narrative, two voices, one wound
🌎 State violence and disappeared sons
🤍 The cost of assimilation across generations
🏥 Medical trauma and reproductive loss
⚠️ Sexual coercion, ambiguous consent
📚 Shelf Placement: Power, Hunger, Embodiment
💭 Personal Reflections
This is not a book for everyone and I mean that as the highest possible compliment.
Mass Mothering runs two narratives side by side. Field Notes is a lyrical, spare journal documenting a community of mothers in an unnamed Latin American country whose sons have disappeared, written by a poet who we know first as Tomas Petritus. The other narrator is A., an amateur translator living alone in a late-capitalist American city, recently traumatized by a medical procedure she consented to without fully understanding what she was agreeing to lose and a relationship that hurt her. She finds Petritus's book on the shelf of N., a man she dances with and sometimes sleeps beside, platonically. She becomes obsessed with the mothers. She translates the book. Eventually she follows its trail abroad.
What Bruni is doing structurally is asking you to hold two kinds of loss at once. The collective, visible, politically organized grief of the Field Notes mothers, and the private, unnamed, almost sourceless grief of A., who doesn't have a community, doesn't have a ritual, doesn't have language for what happened to her body or what she needed from the people around her. The mothers take turns caring for whoever is at her weakest. Nobody takes turns caring for A. The duality is a gut punch.
I found myself more moved by A. than I expected to be, partly because I recognized something in her I wasn't entirely prepared to name. She is not cold. She is not unlikeable. She is empty.
She is also the end product of several generations of successful assimilation, which is to say she inherited disconnection as the cost of survival. Her grandmother was Leonora before she became Nora. Her mother was raised by her own grandmother because Nora was at the bank in heels for fifty years. By the time we get to A. she is, in her own words, third generation nothing. Nowhere, USA.
The erasure worked. And what it left behind is a woman who can only access intimacy at one remove, through a child she cares for but didn't bear, through a language that isn't hers, through the grief of women she will never fully belong to, to a man she will only get so close to.
The Field Notes sections are where the prose opens up and breathes. Bruni writes collective grief with a lyricism that stopped me multiple times. The A sections are flatter, more defended, and I think that's intentional. A. narrates her own dissociation in real time. When something frightening happens she tells herself she is not in danger, she will be fine, she just feels very tired. In my professional experience, "tired" is often what we say when we can't yet say what we actually feel and when we would rather dissociate as coping.
This is the kind of book that works through omission. A.'s blankness isn't a flaw, it's the wound. The open, empty wound of a particular kind of white American inheritance that bought safety at the cost of knowing how to need people. A's mother is present but always at a distance. She isn't at the medical procedure with her, but guides her how to buy underwear on sale. The family holiday isn't nurturing, but everyone sings karaoke from a TV while sitting side by side. You feel the absence more in these snippets of people than you would without them.
Sitting next to the Field Notes mothers, that wound looks very different than it does in isolation of white America. The book just holds the contrast and asks you to sit in the discomfort.
The ending left me with complicated feelings. The critical reception has framed a key scene as a hopeful reconnection between friends/potential lovers. I read it as emotional labor: as a woman trying to smooth something over because she doesn't have the resources to let it stay broken. That might be the most honest thing in the book, and I'm not sure it was meant to land the way it landed for me. Or maybe it was. Bruni leaves enough space that I genuinely can't tell.
🌈 Representation
A is white American, the descendant of European immigrants, and the book is quietly specific about what that means culturally and psychologically. Her whiteness is not incidental and provides a helpful foil.
The Field Notes community is Latina, drawn from Bruni's own fieldwork in Uruguay and Colombia. The mothers are specific, named, embodied, in community. The contrast with A.'s anonymity and isolation is doing deliberate work.
R, the child A. cares for, is neurodivergent. His relationship with his mother is depicted with warmth and specificity, and A.'s position on the periphery of that bond is one of the more quietly devastating threads in the book to me.
N is an immigrant. His relationship to the Field Notes community (the book belonged to his mother) is part of what connects him to A. and he is also a missing boy by choice.
Gendered medical trauma is present and handled with precision. The scene following A.'s biopsy is one of the most accurate depictions of dissociation under medical and financial stress I've read in fiction. It stings.
🔍 Tropes and Power Lens
The scene between A and N that precipitates the novel's final movement is hard to read. He pins her hands while she's half asleep. She freezes. She dissociates. She tells herself she's not in danger, she just feels tired. She stays because she doesn't want to walk past the sleeping woman in the living room. In the morning she asks why and boards the train before he can answer.
The critical framing by other reviewers of this scene as a catalyst for A.'s growth sits uneasily with me. It is a catalyst, but the book is also precise about what it costs her, the shame that pools in her throat on the train, the way his comfort after is the only comfort available to her. That's not empowerment. That's the "fawn" in fight/flight/freeze/fawn. That's a woman with nowhere else to turn accepting care from the person who just violated her implicit trust because he is the only warm body in her life and her only safety. When she does leave it reads to me as more fight/flight than empowerment.
The book doesn't romanticize this. But it also doesn't fully name it, which leaves the reader to do that work alone.
A.'s consent to her own medical procedure follows a similar pattern. She agreed without fully understanding what she was agreeing to lose. The doctor explained brightly and left the room quickly. She bought underwear. She went to teach class. The medical system's indifference to her emotional experience of her own body is handled with precision and without sentimentality.
The broader worldbuilding around the Field Notes community depicts patriarchal state violence clearly and critically. The mothers are organized, political, and resistant. The book does not treat their suffering as wallpaper.
⚠️ Content Warnings
Content warnings are non-exhaustive and reflect what stood out to me as a reader.
Medical trauma and unexpected reproductive loss, sexual coercion and ambiguous consent, state violence and forced disappearances, grief and ambiguous loss, dissociation, financial precarity, immigration and displacement.
⭐ Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
⭐ 1 star: Did not work for me
⭐⭐ 2 stars: Had real problems
⭐⭐⭐ 3 stars: Decent but didn't quite land
⭐⭐⭐⭐ 4 stars: Solid and enjoyable, some reservations
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 5 stars: Loved it, highly recommend
BookShrink ratings reflect my personal reading experience and apply to books read from 2025 onward.
🪡 Braided narrative, two voices, one wound
🌎 State violence and disappeared sons
🤍 The cost of assimilation across generations
🏥 Medical trauma and reproductive loss
⚠️ Sexual coercion, ambiguous consent
📚 Shelf Placement: Power, Hunger, Embodiment
💭 Personal Reflections
This is not a book for everyone and I mean that as the highest possible compliment.
Mass Mothering runs two narratives side by side. Field Notes is a lyrical, spare journal documenting a community of mothers in an unnamed Latin American country whose sons have disappeared, written by a poet who we know first as Tomas Petritus. The other narrator is A., an amateur translator living alone in a late-capitalist American city, recently traumatized by a medical procedure she consented to without fully understanding what she was agreeing to lose and a relationship that hurt her. She finds Petritus's book on the shelf of N., a man she dances with and sometimes sleeps beside, platonically. She becomes obsessed with the mothers. She translates the book. Eventually she follows its trail abroad.
What Bruni is doing structurally is asking you to hold two kinds of loss at once. The collective, visible, politically organized grief of the Field Notes mothers, and the private, unnamed, almost sourceless grief of A., who doesn't have a community, doesn't have a ritual, doesn't have language for what happened to her body or what she needed from the people around her. The mothers take turns caring for whoever is at her weakest. Nobody takes turns caring for A. The duality is a gut punch.
I found myself more moved by A. than I expected to be, partly because I recognized something in her I wasn't entirely prepared to name. She is not cold. She is not unlikeable. She is empty.
She is also the end product of several generations of successful assimilation, which is to say she inherited disconnection as the cost of survival. Her grandmother was Leonora before she became Nora. Her mother was raised by her own grandmother because Nora was at the bank in heels for fifty years. By the time we get to A. she is, in her own words, third generation nothing. Nowhere, USA.
The erasure worked. And what it left behind is a woman who can only access intimacy at one remove, through a child she cares for but didn't bear, through a language that isn't hers, through the grief of women she will never fully belong to, to a man she will only get so close to.
The Field Notes sections are where the prose opens up and breathes. Bruni writes collective grief with a lyricism that stopped me multiple times. The A sections are flatter, more defended, and I think that's intentional. A. narrates her own dissociation in real time. When something frightening happens she tells herself she is not in danger, she will be fine, she just feels very tired. In my professional experience, "tired" is often what we say when we can't yet say what we actually feel and when we would rather dissociate as coping.
This is the kind of book that works through omission. A.'s blankness isn't a flaw, it's the wound. The open, empty wound of a particular kind of white American inheritance that bought safety at the cost of knowing how to need people. A's mother is present but always at a distance. She isn't at the medical procedure with her, but guides her how to buy underwear on sale. The family holiday isn't nurturing, but everyone sings karaoke from a TV while sitting side by side. You feel the absence more in these snippets of people than you would without them.
Sitting next to the Field Notes mothers, that wound looks very different than it does in isolation of white America. The book just holds the contrast and asks you to sit in the discomfort.
The ending left me with complicated feelings. The critical reception has framed a key scene as a hopeful reconnection between friends/potential lovers. I read it as emotional labor: as a woman trying to smooth something over because she doesn't have the resources to let it stay broken. That might be the most honest thing in the book, and I'm not sure it was meant to land the way it landed for me. Or maybe it was. Bruni leaves enough space that I genuinely can't tell.
🌈 Representation
A is white American, the descendant of European immigrants, and the book is quietly specific about what that means culturally and psychologically. Her whiteness is not incidental and provides a helpful foil.
The Field Notes community is Latina, drawn from Bruni's own fieldwork in Uruguay and Colombia. The mothers are specific, named, embodied, in community. The contrast with A.'s anonymity and isolation is doing deliberate work.
R, the child A. cares for, is neurodivergent. His relationship with his mother is depicted with warmth and specificity, and A.'s position on the periphery of that bond is one of the more quietly devastating threads in the book to me.
N is an immigrant. His relationship to the Field Notes community (the book belonged to his mother) is part of what connects him to A. and he is also a missing boy by choice.
Gendered medical trauma is present and handled with precision. The scene following A.'s biopsy is one of the most accurate depictions of dissociation under medical and financial stress I've read in fiction. It stings.
🔍 Tropes and Power Lens
The scene between A and N that precipitates the novel's final movement is hard to read. He pins her hands while she's half asleep. She freezes. She dissociates. She tells herself she's not in danger, she just feels tired. She stays because she doesn't want to walk past the sleeping woman in the living room. In the morning she asks why and boards the train before he can answer.
The critical framing by other reviewers of this scene as a catalyst for A.'s growth sits uneasily with me. It is a catalyst, but the book is also precise about what it costs her, the shame that pools in her throat on the train, the way his comfort after is the only comfort available to her. That's not empowerment. That's the "fawn" in fight/flight/freeze/fawn. That's a woman with nowhere else to turn accepting care from the person who just violated her implicit trust because he is the only warm body in her life and her only safety. When she does leave it reads to me as more fight/flight than empowerment.
The book doesn't romanticize this. But it also doesn't fully name it, which leaves the reader to do that work alone.
A.'s consent to her own medical procedure follows a similar pattern. She agreed without fully understanding what she was agreeing to lose. The doctor explained brightly and left the room quickly. She bought underwear. She went to teach class. The medical system's indifference to her emotional experience of her own body is handled with precision and without sentimentality.
The broader worldbuilding around the Field Notes community depicts patriarchal state violence clearly and critically. The mothers are organized, political, and resistant. The book does not treat their suffering as wallpaper.
⚠️ Content Warnings
Content warnings are non-exhaustive and reflect what stood out to me as a reader.
Medical trauma and unexpected reproductive loss, sexual coercion and ambiguous consent, state violence and forced disappearances, grief and ambiguous loss, dissociation, financial precarity, immigration and displacement.
⭐ Rating: ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐
⭐ 1 star: Did not work for me
⭐⭐ 2 stars: Had real problems
⭐⭐⭐ 3 stars: Decent but didn't quite land
⭐⭐⭐⭐ 4 stars: Solid and enjoyable, some reservations
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ 5 stars: Loved it, highly recommend
BookShrink ratings reflect my personal reading experience and apply to books read from 2025 onward.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
Review of advance copy received from Netgalley
Framed as a story within a story, Sarah Bruni has crafted a tale of motherhood and power disparity, that unfortunately didn’t click with me.
We follow A., an unnamed translator, living alone in an unforgiving, late-capitalist metropolis. She is still recovering from a medical trauma that took her reproductive organs, and spends her days nannying for another woman’s boy and her nights out dancing with a man only referred to as N. N is an immigrant, and among his meager possessions, A discovers a manuscript of “Field Notes”, painting a tragic portrait of N’s hometown. A town where a community of mothers collectively mourns their disappearing sons…
Interweaving A’s story of grief and discovery with the chorus of the mothers mourning, Bruni creates a story of maternal care and womanhood in all its shapes and roles.
Despite dealing with some incredibly heavy topics, including medical trauma, infertility, political/governmental injustice and collective grief, Bruni deliberately keeps the reader at an arm’s length distance from all of it. This is especially apparent in the storyline of the disappearing-boys-mothers, where a horrific tragedy is presented through the eyes of an outside observer, who has no emotional investment in the events. Yet even in A’s timeline, where we are literally in the mind of the person it concerns most, the story feels distant and impersonal – a recollection of mere events rather than an emotional engagement with them.
I realize this is a conscious choice by the author, even going so far as to anonymize the characters by even stripping them of their names and referring to them by their initials only. Unfortunately, this distance took away from the power of the narrative, instead of adding to it, as was the intend.
Had the book been a little longer, I might have grown into the characters a bit more, and there could’ve been a powerful message in that growth. Every nameless face in a crowd has a full person behind it… I personally felt the current short length didn’t allow for that. Nor did it allow for a deep enough exploration of the themes to connect A’s storyline to that of the mothers in a satisfying way. As a result, the two storylines felt disjointed, in addition to impersonal.
Overall, the combination of anonymity, disconnect and a short length made for an unfortunately forgettable end product.
Many thanks to Brilliance Audio and Netgalley for providing me with an ARC in exchange for an honest review. All opinions are my own.
We follow A., an unnamed translator, living alone in an unforgiving, late-capitalist metropolis. She is still recovering from a medical trauma that took her reproductive organs, and spends her days nannying for another woman’s boy and her nights out dancing with a man only referred to as N. N is an immigrant, and among his meager possessions, A discovers a manuscript of “Field Notes”, painting a tragic portrait of N’s hometown. A town where a community of mothers collectively mourns their disappearing sons…
Interweaving A’s story of grief and discovery with the chorus of the mothers mourning, Bruni creates a story of maternal care and womanhood in all its shapes and roles.
Despite dealing with some incredibly heavy topics, including medical trauma, infertility, political/governmental injustice and collective grief, Bruni deliberately keeps the reader at an arm’s length distance from all of it. This is especially apparent in the storyline of the disappearing-boys-mothers, where a horrific tragedy is presented through the eyes of an outside observer, who has no emotional investment in the events. Yet even in A’s timeline, where we are literally in the mind of the person it concerns most, the story feels distant and impersonal – a recollection of mere events rather than an emotional engagement with them.
I realize this is a conscious choice by the author, even going so far as to anonymize the characters by even stripping them of their names and referring to them by their initials only. Unfortunately, this distance took away from the power of the narrative, instead of adding to it, as was the intend.
Had the book been a little longer, I might have grown into the characters a bit more, and there could’ve been a powerful message in that growth. Every nameless face in a crowd has a full person behind it… I personally felt the current short length didn’t allow for that. Nor did it allow for a deep enough exploration of the themes to connect A’s storyline to that of the mothers in a satisfying way. As a result, the two storylines felt disjointed, in addition to impersonal.
Overall, the combination of anonymity, disconnect and a short length made for an unfortunately forgettable end product.
Many thanks to Brilliance Audio and Netgalley for providing me with an ARC in exchange for an honest review. All opinions are my own.
February 16, 2026
Mass Mothering is the first book I’ve read this year that feels truly original. I haven’t encountered anything quite like it. Sarah Bruni introduces us to A., a woman living in a city that doesn’t feel like her own, in a body that feels even less so. An amateur translator, she has undergone a medical procedure to remove her reproductive organs. The operations left her physically diminished and financially strained. By day, A. works as a nanny to a young boy. By night, she disappears into clubs, dancing as if she can outrun whatever fragments of herself remain. It’s in one of these clubs that she meets a man known only as N., who seems to exist in a similar state of suspension. The two begin to connect, drawn together by their shared sense of displacement.
One evening, among N.’s sparse belongings, A. discovers a slim volume titled Field Notes. The book recounts a distant town where boys have vanished, and the mothers left behind gather in communal mourning. It's raw, collective, and strangely powerful. A. becomes captivated by these women, by their near-mythic resilience and the way they sustain one another through the unbearable. On impulse, she travels to the city where Field Notes was written, determined to find its author and the missing conclusion to his story. Instead, her search leads her to the traces of a murdered poet—a mysterious woman whose legacy will intersect with A.’s life in ways that are both unexpected and transformative.
With Mass Mothering, Sarah Bruni delivers a subtle, introspective novel that grapples with weighty, complex themes. There’s an intentional juxtaposition in her approach that mirrors the way A. processes, or avoids, her own emotions. The communal grief and resilience depicted in Field Notes are experienced at a remove, filtered through text rather than lived reality. It’s not something A. is ready, or perhaps even able, to confront firsthand. She hasn’t granted herself permission to step fully into that depth of feeling.
While the themes Bruni explores are undeniably powerful, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of detachment from the characters and their emotions. That distance seems purposeful; we’re meant to inhabit the same suspended state A. occupies, hovering just outside of catharsis. Still, that very design kept me from fully immersing myself in the story. Mass Mothering ultimately mirrors its protagonist’s emotional displacement with striking precision, but in doing so, it left me feeling slightly removed from its emotional core.
One evening, among N.’s sparse belongings, A. discovers a slim volume titled Field Notes. The book recounts a distant town where boys have vanished, and the mothers left behind gather in communal mourning. It's raw, collective, and strangely powerful. A. becomes captivated by these women, by their near-mythic resilience and the way they sustain one another through the unbearable. On impulse, she travels to the city where Field Notes was written, determined to find its author and the missing conclusion to his story. Instead, her search leads her to the traces of a murdered poet—a mysterious woman whose legacy will intersect with A.’s life in ways that are both unexpected and transformative.
With Mass Mothering, Sarah Bruni delivers a subtle, introspective novel that grapples with weighty, complex themes. There’s an intentional juxtaposition in her approach that mirrors the way A. processes, or avoids, her own emotions. The communal grief and resilience depicted in Field Notes are experienced at a remove, filtered through text rather than lived reality. It’s not something A. is ready, or perhaps even able, to confront firsthand. She hasn’t granted herself permission to step fully into that depth of feeling.
While the themes Bruni explores are undeniably powerful, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of detachment from the characters and their emotions. That distance seems purposeful; we’re meant to inhabit the same suspended state A. occupies, hovering just outside of catharsis. Still, that very design kept me from fully immersing myself in the story. Mass Mothering ultimately mirrors its protagonist’s emotional displacement with striking precision, but in doing so, it left me feeling slightly removed from its emotional core.
February 14, 2026
First of all, this is not your typical “plot-heavy, everything neatly wrapped up” novel. It opens with this haunting storyline about a town where boys are disappearing and the mothers who absolutely refuse to stop searching for them. As a mom that premise alone had me hooked (and honestly a little unsettled) 💔
Then we meet A., a single woman nannying by day, dancing her feelings out at night and recovering from surgery that’s taken away her ability to have children. She starts seeing a man called N., discovers a book about grieving mothers fighting government violence in his home country and suddenly everything starts weaving together in ways I absolutely did not predict 😳
The action mostly happens off-page which somehow makes it even more powerful. It’s thoughtful, a little detached and very intentional. Not a popcorn thriller. More like a slow-burn, sip-your-coffee-and-stare-out-the-window kind of read ☕
At its heart this book is about motherhood in all its forms: grieving mothers who’ve lost sons to violence 💔, women who long to be mothers but can’t 🤍 and the ways power, especially political power, can devastate families without ever fully acknowledging the damage. It also explores infertility, medical trauma, state violence and collective grief but in a way that feels reflective rather than sensational.
Even when we’re inside A.’s head, there’s this emotional remove like we’re watching history unfold from afar, trying to piece together what happened and what it meant. Instead of turning the story into a dramatic thriller about government corruption, Bruni focuses on the ripple effects: how decisions made by powerful men quietly, almost casually, alter the lives of countless women and families.
It’s heavy. It’s thoughtful. It’s not necessarily a cozy weekend read. But it’s the kind of book that lingers and makes you think about what motherhood means.. not just biologically, but politically, socially and emotionally. I’m still turning it over in my mind.
In the acknowledgements, the author thanks those who helped in her research in Uruguay and Colombia 🇺🇾🇨🇴 The testimonies throughout the novel are inspired by stories that came up during her research.
Thank you so much Sarah Bruni, @henryholtbooks @Brilliancepublishing for the #gifted book and ALC in exchange for my honest review!
Then we meet A., a single woman nannying by day, dancing her feelings out at night and recovering from surgery that’s taken away her ability to have children. She starts seeing a man called N., discovers a book about grieving mothers fighting government violence in his home country and suddenly everything starts weaving together in ways I absolutely did not predict 😳
The action mostly happens off-page which somehow makes it even more powerful. It’s thoughtful, a little detached and very intentional. Not a popcorn thriller. More like a slow-burn, sip-your-coffee-and-stare-out-the-window kind of read ☕
At its heart this book is about motherhood in all its forms: grieving mothers who’ve lost sons to violence 💔, women who long to be mothers but can’t 🤍 and the ways power, especially political power, can devastate families without ever fully acknowledging the damage. It also explores infertility, medical trauma, state violence and collective grief but in a way that feels reflective rather than sensational.
Even when we’re inside A.’s head, there’s this emotional remove like we’re watching history unfold from afar, trying to piece together what happened and what it meant. Instead of turning the story into a dramatic thriller about government corruption, Bruni focuses on the ripple effects: how decisions made by powerful men quietly, almost casually, alter the lives of countless women and families.
It’s heavy. It’s thoughtful. It’s not necessarily a cozy weekend read. But it’s the kind of book that lingers and makes you think about what motherhood means.. not just biologically, but politically, socially and emotionally. I’m still turning it over in my mind.
In the acknowledgements, the author thanks those who helped in her research in Uruguay and Colombia 🇺🇾🇨🇴 The testimonies throughout the novel are inspired by stories that came up during her research.
Thank you so much Sarah Bruni, @henryholtbooks @Brilliancepublishing for the #gifted book and ALC in exchange for my honest review!
February 10, 2026
They miss their boys.
At night is the worst. From inside their beds and bodies, they speak to the ceiling with voices that rise and fall at the pitch of wounded animals left for dead in the fields. Starvation is what eventually quiets the animals.
The mothers stay ravenous.
I thought I would enjoy Mass Mothering more than I did. There are certainly moments of beauty, but the way the story was told detracted from its impact for me.
It unfolds across two distinct narratives. The first is excerpts from a book called Field Notes, written by an academic studying a group of mothers in an unnamed country whose sons have mysteriously disappeared. The second is written from the perspective of A., a young woman who finds Field Notes on a shelf in her boyfriend’s apartment and decides to translate the book. A., who is unable to have children of her own, is deeply affected by the stories of the mothers and decides to travel to their country to learn more about them, and about the book’s mysterious author.
There were certain passages and sections of this book that I found to be incredibly profound, but for the most part, Mass Mothering left me unmoved. It deals with heavy themes – collective grief, infertility, the weight of motherhood, government corruption – but it’s too short to address them in a truly meaningful way. The deliberate anonymity of locations and characters was I think meant to speak to the universality of these issues, but it had the opposite effect for me.
The Field Notes are written by an observer of the mothers’ losses, rather than the mothers themselves, which gave those sections less emotional power than they could have had. And A.’s narrative felt too impersonal, as though she was just relaying events rather than exploring her feelings about those events.
Unfortunately, I just didn’t connect with this book the way I’d hoped, and I’m giving it 2.5 stars rounded up. Thank you to Henry Holt & Co. for the early reading opportunity.
March 1, 2026
I’m going to preface this with the fact that I’m not a big dystopian reader. I seem to struggle with this genre in general, mainly because I need characters I can grab onto and feel invested in.
A. is a translator who finds a book documenting government violence, especially against boys they consider rebels. The book details how the mothers have connected in their grief. She decides to head out to this city to uncover the truth behind these mothers’ stories.
This felt very two-fold to me; it explored motherhood from many aspects, yet it also revealed the ripple effect of government corruption, state violence, medical trauma, and of those in power (here, all men) making decisions. While there were parts of the narrative where I felt the mothers’ grief, and I loved how they shared and cared for one another, the characters felt very distant to me. Even A., the woman truly on a journey, I couldn’t seem to connect with.
This book features heavy themes and is inspired by stories from the author's own research, making it all the more haunting. Given its heartbreaking nature, I was surprised it felt sterile to me. It may have something to do with the writing structure, as interviews and field notes are interspersed throughout A.’s journey to the city. This gives it an academic feel and a dystopian vibe. I appreciate its uniqueness and even the slight coldness to the story, but as I stated above, I can’t be held at arm’s length from the characters.
🎧 I did an immersive read of the audiobook narrated by EJ Lavery. EJ does a great job, matching and accenting the tone and mood of this story. It can get a bit confusing with which character is speaking or being spoken about, so a physical copy to accompany it may be beneficial.
Thank you @henryholtbooks for this gifted book. Thank you @brilliancepublishing for the gifted audiobook via @NetGalley.
Review of advance copy received from Netgalley
When I started this book, I was riveted. The first Field Notes section introduces us to an unnamed researcher (later revealed as Tomas Petritus) who is interviewing a group of women whose sons have gone missing under mysterious circumstances. The way the narrator writes about the disappearances, the feelings the mothers have of being haunted, their move to this unnamed city, makes it sound like you're about to step into a work of speculative fiction. So A's section of Part I was a massive letdown.
Once I was grounded in reality with an idea of where we were (the narration gestures to South America but it is purposefully obscure; disappearances like this can and have happened anywhere and everywhere), I actually thought Part II was the strongest. We learn what really lies behind the disappearances of these boys, the courage it takes these mothers to never stop reminding people that their sons died and what they died for. Even A's journey to the city where these mothers live so she can research the book of Field Notes she stole from N is interesting, rife with discovery and connection.
But Part III lost me again. By the time the story wrapped up, it felt really disjointed. What was the purpose of R and his mother being in the story at all? Dancing is such a vital part of A's relationship with N, and the way she describes it as a form of communication, it seems like there being no link between that and the other story was a missed opportunity. I think it says what it wants to say about such a serious topic in a very half-hearted way.
In a word, this book was underwhelming. It's a 2.5 for me. Some solid stuff in here, but overall nothing came together in a way that worked for me.
Thanks to Netgalley & Henry Holt and Co. for the eARC.
Once I was grounded in reality with an idea of where we were (the narration gestures to South America but it is purposefully obscure; disappearances like this can and have happened anywhere and everywhere), I actually thought Part II was the strongest. We learn what really lies behind the disappearances of these boys, the courage it takes these mothers to never stop reminding people that their sons died and what they died for. Even A's journey to the city where these mothers live so she can research the book of Field Notes she stole from N is interesting, rife with discovery and connection.
But Part III lost me again. By the time the story wrapped up, it felt really disjointed. What was the purpose of R and his mother being in the story at all? Dancing is such a vital part of A's relationship with N, and the way she describes it as a form of communication, it seems like there being no link between that and the other story was a missed opportunity. I think it says what it wants to say about such a serious topic in a very half-hearted way.
In a word, this book was underwhelming. It's a 2.5 for me. Some solid stuff in here, but overall nothing came together in a way that worked for me.
Thanks to Netgalley & Henry Holt and Co. for the eARC.
February 3, 2026
Thanks to Sarah Bruni, Macmillan, and NetGalley for the ARC. As always, my opinions are my own.
I am of two minds about this book. I was gripped by it when I read it and I found the writing quite beautiful, but... I'm not sure it was actually good?
The book has two interleaved stories. Portions are excerpts from a book called "Field Notes" by an author named Tomas Petritus, visiting a small town in an unnamed country gripped by political violence. Petritus watches and then interviews mothers whose sons have been disappeared. In vignettes he chronicles the way they care for each other, the way they mourn, the way they ultimately form a political movement. These parts of the book feel strongest to me, evocative and laced with a sense of menace from shadowy others.
The other story is about a young midwestern woman who is living in New York, trying to recover from losing both her fertility and her foothold in the middle class due to cancer. She goes out dancing every night, meets a man from Petritus's home country and becomes ambiguously involved with him, and begins translating "Field Notes."
I found her story less compelling. I don't know that we needed a rootless, indecisive, passive white woman at the center of this story. When she travels to the country where "Field Notes" was written, she doesn't so much discover things about the history behind the book - it's more that people appear and tell her things.
The prose in this book is very pretty and feels... heavily worked? Self-consciously literary? I was not surprised to see that the author has an MFA from Iowa. I was compelled at the sentence level. But I saw the big thing that connects the stories coming from a mile away, and I don't think this book will stick with me.
I am of two minds about this book. I was gripped by it when I read it and I found the writing quite beautiful, but... I'm not sure it was actually good?
The book has two interleaved stories. Portions are excerpts from a book called "Field Notes" by an author named Tomas Petritus, visiting a small town in an unnamed country gripped by political violence. Petritus watches and then interviews mothers whose sons have been disappeared. In vignettes he chronicles the way they care for each other, the way they mourn, the way they ultimately form a political movement. These parts of the book feel strongest to me, evocative and laced with a sense of menace from shadowy others.
The other story is about a young midwestern woman who is living in New York, trying to recover from losing both her fertility and her foothold in the middle class due to cancer. She goes out dancing every night, meets a man from Petritus's home country and becomes ambiguously involved with him, and begins translating "Field Notes."
I found her story less compelling. I don't know that we needed a rootless, indecisive, passive white woman at the center of this story. When she travels to the country where "Field Notes" was written, she doesn't so much discover things about the history behind the book - it's more that people appear and tell her things.
The prose in this book is very pretty and feels... heavily worked? Self-consciously literary? I was not surprised to see that the author has an MFA from Iowa. I was compelled at the sentence level. But I saw the big thing that connects the stories coming from a mile away, and I don't think this book will stick with me.
January 16, 2026
This is a 3.5 for me. Bruni creates a story that alters between the story of A. and a book that she is translating, Field Notes, taken by an observer in a city filled with violence and fear. Sons are missing, and mothers are desperate to find them. These mothers grieve together over their lost children. The community of mothers have learned that they have become marginalized in their own city. Bruni beautifully expresses the helplessness of these women as they seek answers about the disappearances of their sons.
A. is intrigued by a book of grieving mothers, as she is grieving for the children she will never have. Bruni captures the sadness and wistfulness of a woman who loses the capacity to mother due to medical reasons. A. loses purpose in life and hopes to find answers through this sisterhood of grieving mothers she finds in this book.
While I understand not giving names to characters to make them a faceless entity of a world with similar issues and circumstances, it made it hard to connect with the characters. The beginning was a slow start. I liked A’s story so much more than the Field Notes. I would have like the field notes to be smaller sections to allow Bruni to fully explore A. and her journey. I felt that just as her story was really grabbing me, the book would switch to the field notes.
At first, the book gave some dystopian vibes as there were missing children and a city/government that didn’t seem to fully address the concerns of the mothers. I feel if A’s would have been featured more strongly in the beginning, those ideas wouldn’t have come across so strongly.
A. is intrigued by a book of grieving mothers, as she is grieving for the children she will never have. Bruni captures the sadness and wistfulness of a woman who loses the capacity to mother due to medical reasons. A. loses purpose in life and hopes to find answers through this sisterhood of grieving mothers she finds in this book.
While I understand not giving names to characters to make them a faceless entity of a world with similar issues and circumstances, it made it hard to connect with the characters. The beginning was a slow start. I liked A’s story so much more than the Field Notes. I would have like the field notes to be smaller sections to allow Bruni to fully explore A. and her journey. I felt that just as her story was really grabbing me, the book would switch to the field notes.
At first, the book gave some dystopian vibes as there were missing children and a city/government that didn’t seem to fully address the concerns of the mothers. I feel if A’s would have been featured more strongly in the beginning, those ideas wouldn’t have come across so strongly.
February 19, 2026
Mass Mothering by Sarah Bruni follows A. a young amateur translator living alone and struggling after a medical trauma left her adrift. Her days are spent caring for a child she did not give birth to and her nights on the dance floor chasing connection. One evening she finds a book called Field Notes filled with stories of a distant town where mothers gather to mourn their missing sons. The book draws her in and pulls her toward that place and toward mysteries she never expected in her own life.
When I finished this book, I didn’t know how to feel. I had to sit with it for a few days. I kept finding myself returning to it during quiet moments, replaying certain passages in my mind. It’s beautiful and deeply layered, with meaning that stretches far beyond the final chapter. So much of it feels intentionally quiet on the surface while carrying something enormous underneath.
Something that really stuck with me was how the story handles profound pain with such beauty and grace. The grief that emerges through the testimonies and experiences in the book feels tender and human. The writing doesn’t sensationalize suffering; instead it captures the quiet weight of it. There is anger, yes, but it is bound up in love. There is sorrow and yet also a sense of connection that lingers.
This isn’t a story that ties everything up neatly. It doesn’t offer easy comfort or clear resolution. Instead, it lingers. It unsettles you in a subtle way and asks you to think beyond the page. It is the kind of book that continues to echo long after you close it, leaving you reflective, slightly shaken, and deeply moved.
Thank you henry holt books for sending me a copy of this book!
When I finished this book, I didn’t know how to feel. I had to sit with it for a few days. I kept finding myself returning to it during quiet moments, replaying certain passages in my mind. It’s beautiful and deeply layered, with meaning that stretches far beyond the final chapter. So much of it feels intentionally quiet on the surface while carrying something enormous underneath.
Something that really stuck with me was how the story handles profound pain with such beauty and grace. The grief that emerges through the testimonies and experiences in the book feels tender and human. The writing doesn’t sensationalize suffering; instead it captures the quiet weight of it. There is anger, yes, but it is bound up in love. There is sorrow and yet also a sense of connection that lingers.
This isn’t a story that ties everything up neatly. It doesn’t offer easy comfort or clear resolution. Instead, it lingers. It unsettles you in a subtle way and asks you to think beyond the page. It is the kind of book that continues to echo long after you close it, leaving you reflective, slightly shaken, and deeply moved.
Thank you henry holt books for sending me a copy of this book!
February 25, 2026
Mass Mothering by Sarah Bruni tells a story which explores on of my favorite themes: grief. And, even though it is a theme I read often, this book is completely unique.
It unfolds in two ways. The main character, known only be the letter A, is a relatively solitary person, living in a city away from family. She spends her nights dancing with anonymous others, and works as a nanny. She has recently underwent surgery to remove her uterus and ovaries. A forms a tenuous relationship with a man named N, but will either of them open up and share.
Throughout the book we also read excerpts from a book titled Field Notes, which recounts the tales of mothers whose children have gone missing. They talk about government violence which took place in the home country of N. These stories are shocking, compelling and tragic, but are written with the coldness of true crime.
When A discovers the book she becomes determined to uncover the truth behind the stories, and in doing so will begin to define motherhood, grief, and the fears surrounding state violence.
The storytelling style gives this heavy book some respite, as all of the violence occurs in the past, to anonymous characters who we aren't in conversation with. It gives the darkness some distance, and allows the reader to separate themselves from the harm. And, while it gives the reader some room to breathe, it deftly demonstrates the ways powerful people can create a calamitous and destructive world for the people around them.
The book is far more powerful because of the storytelling style. However, I don't believe it works as well on audio. I recommend that this one be read.
It unfolds in two ways. The main character, known only be the letter A, is a relatively solitary person, living in a city away from family. She spends her nights dancing with anonymous others, and works as a nanny. She has recently underwent surgery to remove her uterus and ovaries. A forms a tenuous relationship with a man named N, but will either of them open up and share.
Throughout the book we also read excerpts from a book titled Field Notes, which recounts the tales of mothers whose children have gone missing. They talk about government violence which took place in the home country of N. These stories are shocking, compelling and tragic, but are written with the coldness of true crime.
When A discovers the book she becomes determined to uncover the truth behind the stories, and in doing so will begin to define motherhood, grief, and the fears surrounding state violence.
The storytelling style gives this heavy book some respite, as all of the violence occurs in the past, to anonymous characters who we aren't in conversation with. It gives the darkness some distance, and allows the reader to separate themselves from the harm. And, while it gives the reader some room to breathe, it deftly demonstrates the ways powerful people can create a calamitous and destructive world for the people around them.
The book is far more powerful because of the storytelling style. However, I don't believe it works as well on audio. I recommend that this one be read.
Review of advance copy received from Netgalley
This reflects a side of life that is complicated.
It started with field notes documented by Tomas Petritus in a country that wasn’t identified. He was researching a group of 20 mothers under 36 years old who gathered together regularly for support. They embraced, prayed and cried as they talked about their missing sons. It was suspected that they were taken against their will and forced to be a part of a rebel group.
Next the book jumped to a young woman who was referred to as “A.” She was dating someone called “N.” while she was taking care of a young boy “R.” She was also an instructor for Language Elective for Non-Native Speakers. While she was seeing “N.” she was intrigued with a book on his shelf by the late Petritus. She took it without N.’s knowledge and used it to get a research grant.
It was a slow start and wasn’t easy to get engaged especially with characters identified by A., N., and R. It created a feeling of distance and distrust. There were several issues presented by A. including health concerns, childhood stories, classroom observations and support for grieving women.
It emphasized the grief and fear mothers endured with missing sons. Some of those trying to help were killed. The story had a lot of good points but it was disjointed in places. However, it’s clear this is a widespread complex problem in the world.
My thanks to Henry Holt and Company and NetGalley for the advanced copy of this book with an expected release date of February 3, 2026.
It started with field notes documented by Tomas Petritus in a country that wasn’t identified. He was researching a group of 20 mothers under 36 years old who gathered together regularly for support. They embraced, prayed and cried as they talked about their missing sons. It was suspected that they were taken against their will and forced to be a part of a rebel group.
Next the book jumped to a young woman who was referred to as “A.” She was dating someone called “N.” while she was taking care of a young boy “R.” She was also an instructor for Language Elective for Non-Native Speakers. While she was seeing “N.” she was intrigued with a book on his shelf by the late Petritus. She took it without N.’s knowledge and used it to get a research grant.
It was a slow start and wasn’t easy to get engaged especially with characters identified by A., N., and R. It created a feeling of distance and distrust. There were several issues presented by A. including health concerns, childhood stories, classroom observations and support for grieving women.
It emphasized the grief and fear mothers endured with missing sons. Some of those trying to help were killed. The story had a lot of good points but it was disjointed in places. However, it’s clear this is a widespread complex problem in the world.
My thanks to Henry Holt and Company and NetGalley for the advanced copy of this book with an expected release date of February 3, 2026.
February 18, 2026
Actual Rating 1.5
The premise of this one drew me in, and I was interested in the dystopian aspect as well as the promise of an emotionally powerful read. There are dark events and heavy themes incorporated throughout the book, but the way it's narrated keeps it at a distance the whole time, which led to a loss of immersion and depth. It may have been a deliberate choice by the author to keep the work from feeling to heavy, but it only resulted in it feeling emotionally flat and impossible to connect with. This is true with both timelines, even the one when readers are privy to the inner-thoughts of the narrator.
And this is a book where the two timelines are not equal. We spend the most time in the POV that is honestly the least interesting and most disjointed. The two narratives didn't compliment each other in the way they could have, which was disappointing.
The biggest drawback was simply that I just couldn't connect with the characters and their plights. If that distance had been taken away and more emotional impact was present, this could have been compelling. But as it is, everything felt disconnected and simply like words on a page. If you're going to read this, I do recommend the audio version as the narrator did an excellent job. My thanks to NetGalley and Brilliance Publishing for allowing me to read this work. All thoughts and opinions expressed in this review are my own.
The premise of this one drew me in, and I was interested in the dystopian aspect as well as the promise of an emotionally powerful read. There are dark events and heavy themes incorporated throughout the book, but the way it's narrated keeps it at a distance the whole time, which led to a loss of immersion and depth. It may have been a deliberate choice by the author to keep the work from feeling to heavy, but it only resulted in it feeling emotionally flat and impossible to connect with. This is true with both timelines, even the one when readers are privy to the inner-thoughts of the narrator.
And this is a book where the two timelines are not equal. We spend the most time in the POV that is honestly the least interesting and most disjointed. The two narratives didn't compliment each other in the way they could have, which was disappointing.
The biggest drawback was simply that I just couldn't connect with the characters and their plights. If that distance had been taken away and more emotional impact was present, this could have been compelling. But as it is, everything felt disconnected and simply like words on a page. If you're going to read this, I do recommend the audio version as the narrator did an excellent job. My thanks to NetGalley and Brilliance Publishing for allowing me to read this work. All thoughts and opinions expressed in this review are my own.
Review of advance copy received from Goodreads Giveaways
Mass Mothering is suffused with loss and loneliness but ultimately a hopeful and life-affirming book. The central plot is set in an unnamed country where countless boys have vanished for reasons their mothers can’t divine. Many of the mothers routinely gather in the capital city to console one another and to try to persuade their cowardly elected officials to locate their sons. Then an American woman who is reeling from her own loss stumbles upon a book detailing the mothers’ plight and decides to translate their story into English. After tracking down and interviewing some of the bereaved women, she makes several discoveries that ultimately lead to meaningful and transformative connections in her own life.
In the process of telling an absorbing tale, Mass Mothering touches on several thought-provoking themes relevant to current events in the United States today, including the marginalization of women and the underclasses, the proliferation of conspiracy theories, and the mindset that certain people just don’t belong in a given society and are expendable. Overall, I found Mass Mothering to be a quick and rewarding read that serves up a great deal of worthwhile food for thought. (I received an advance reading copy of the book from the publisher in a Goodreads Giveaway, and the above is my honest review.)
In the process of telling an absorbing tale, Mass Mothering touches on several thought-provoking themes relevant to current events in the United States today, including the marginalization of women and the underclasses, the proliferation of conspiracy theories, and the mindset that certain people just don’t belong in a given society and are expendable. Overall, I found Mass Mothering to be a quick and rewarding read that serves up a great deal of worthwhile food for thought. (I received an advance reading copy of the book from the publisher in a Goodreads Giveaway, and the above is my honest review.)
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