Anne Tyler has the rare ability to map both the deepest and most fleeting cares of the human heart, without ever descending into mawkishness. She is incapable of writing a line that doesn't ring with emotional truth. This novel's protagonists are ageing with their author- the fulcrum around which the entire bickering cast revolves is Rebecca, a 53 year old widow, who has spent thirty years raising and supporting her dead husband's children, and mopping up after the 99 year old uncle living in the attic. Their casual acceptance of her role has finally led her to question whether she is, in fact, living the life she was destined to live which, she believes is one of bookish restraint, rather than the boisterous, party-throwing frenzy it has become. Her quest for the truth about herself brings her back to the boyfriend she rejected in high school, and forces her to wonder whether, as Uncle Poppy says, "your true life is the one you're living." I couldn't feel empathy with anyone who didn't respond to Anne Tyler's masterly writing, in this case,crafted with the art that conceals art, into an eminently readable, infinitely wise meditation on ageing, family, and self-awareness. All this, and funny too.