book reviews

Reviews of books that explore the complexities of family throughout history and across cultures.

The Loneliest People Are the Most Liked
I have 3,842 followers. And no one to call when my chest feels heavy at 11:47 p.m. It sounds dramatic when I say it out loud, which is probably why I don’t say it. Instead, I post. A photo. A joke. A thoughtful caption about growth. A filtered version of a life that looks full. People respond the way they always do — hearts, laughing emojis, “You’re glowing lately,” “Proud of you,” “You’re such a positive soul.” Positive. That word follows me everywhere. I learned early that people like warmth. They like the friend who listens more than they speak. The one who remembers birthdays. The one who shows up smiling, even when they arrived tired. So I became that person. Not because I was fake — but because it worked. Being liked feels a lot like being safe. When you’re liked, people clap for you. They invite you places. They tag you in things. They assume you’re doing well. And assumptions are comfortable. No one looks too closely at someone who seems fine. I seem fine. The loneliest people aren’t the quiet ones in the corner. Sometimes they’re the loudest laugh in the room. The ones who know how to carry a conversation. The ones who can make strangers feel seen. I know how to make people feel seen. I just don’t know how to let them see me. There’s a difference. When you’re the “strong” friend, the “funny” friend, the “put-together” one, you slowly become a role instead of a person. And roles don’t get comforted. They perform. At gatherings, I float between groups like I belong everywhere. I ask questions. I remember details. I make connections. I leave with new followers, new contacts, new proof that I’m socially successful. And then I go home and sit on the edge of my bed in complete silence. No notifications feel the same as conversation. No heart emoji replaces eye contact. No comment section replaces someone noticing that your voice sounded off. Sometimes I scroll through my own profile to understand why I feel so empty. The grid is curated. Balanced. Happy. There’s evidence of friendships, coffee dates, achievements, small adventures. If someone studied my page, they’d think I’m surrounded. Maybe that’s why I don’t reach out when I need help. Who would believe the person who always looks okay? There’s a strange pressure in being well-liked. You don’t want to disappoint the image people hold of you. You don’t want to be “too much.” You don’t want to shift from inspiring to overwhelming. So you swallow the heaviness. You reply, “I’m good!” automatically. You become efficient at redirecting conversations away from yourself. You tell yourself loneliness is dramatic. After all, you’re constantly interacting. Constantly visible. But visibility isn’t intimacy. And being known is not the same as being recognized. I remember one night in particular. I had just posted something vulnerable — but not too vulnerable. Carefully measured honesty. The kind that hints at depth but doesn’t expose the wound. It went viral. Messages poured in. “Thank you for saying this.” “You always articulate things so well.” “You’re so brave.” I stared at the screen and felt nothing. Because bravery would have been telling someone specific, “I’m not okay.” Bravery would have been admitting that I feel invisible even when I’m admired. But admiration is addictive. It fills the surface. It doesn’t reach the center. The loneliest people are often the most liked because they learned how to survive by being agreeable. Being helpful. Being impressive. They built connection skills before they built vulnerability skills. I know how to network. I don’t know how to need. There’s a fear underneath it — what if people like the version of me that doesn’t ask for anything? What if the moment I reveal the mess, the overthinking, the quiet sadness, the confusion… the likes fade? So I maintain. I keep conversations light. I keep problems private. I keep performing stability. And the world rewards me for it. But sometimes, late at night, I wonder what it would feel like to be deeply understood instead of widely appreciated. To have one person notice the pause before I say “I’m fine.” To have someone call without a reason. To sit in silence with another human and not feel the need to entertain. Loneliness isn’t always about physical isolation. It’s about emotional distance. It’s about realizing that many people enjoy you, but very few truly know you. And maybe that’s partly my fault. Being liked gave me control. If I’m useful, funny, inspiring — people stay. If I’m messy, confused, uncertain — that feels risky. But slowly, I’m learning something uncomfortable. Connection requires risk. The kind where you let someone see the unedited version. The kind where you say, “I don’t have it together.” The kind where you admit you don’t want advice — just presence. The first time I told a friend, “I’ve been feeling really alone,” my voice shook. It felt dramatic. Unnecessary. Embarrassing. She didn’t laugh. She didn’t minimize it. She said, “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I didn’t have an answer. Maybe because I was too busy being liked. Maybe because I confused applause with affection. Maybe because I thought needing someone would make me less admirable. But something shifted that night. A small crack in the performance. A small step away from being universally appreciated and slightly more personally known. I still have 3,842 followers. But now I also have one person who knows that sometimes, I sit on the edge of my bed and feel the weight of everything. And somehow, that one connection feels louder than all the notifications combined. The loneliest people are often the most liked. Not because they are fake. But because they learned how to shine in public and hide in private. I’m tired of hiding. I don’t want to be everyone’s favorite. I just want to be someone’s real.
By Faizan Malik5 days ago in Families
The Power of Presence
When “Good Parenting” Became a Feeling In modern parenting conversations, “good” has increasingly come to mean emotionally warm, verbally affirming, and immediately comforting. A good parent is expected to soothe distress quickly, validate feelings consistently, and minimize discomfort whenever possible. These traits are treated as obvious indicators of healthy parenting, reinforced by cultural messaging, therapeutic language, and social reward structures. When a child feels better in the moment, the parenting decision is assumed to have been correct, and when discomfort persists, the decision is often framed as a failure of care rather than a necessary part of development.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast7 days ago in Families
The Forgotten Art of Being Present: Why Family Time Became a Casualty of the Clock . AI-Generated.
The dinner table was never just a piece of furniture. It was an altar, a staging ground for the small dramas and quiet revelations that woven together form the tapestry of family life. It was where you learned that your father had a funny story about his boss, that your sister was nervous about her math test, that your grandmother once had a different name, in a different country, in a different life. It was where you were seen, not as a student, a teammate, or a future adult, but simply as a member of a small, flawed, stubborn tribe called family.
By HAADI10 days ago in Families
The Night Everything Fell Apart
The Night Everything Fell Apart Ubaid I used to believe that life collapses slowly—like a building with cracks that warn you before it falls. I was wrong. Sometimes, everything shatters in a single night. It was a Thursday evening when the sky looked strangely heavy, as if it knew something I didn’t. I remember sitting at my desk, pretending to work while my mind wandered through unfinished conversations and silent disappointments. My phone lay beside me, face down, as if hiding from the truth it was about to deliver. At 9:17 p.m., it rang. I almost didn’t answer. It was my younger sister, Areeba. She rarely called me at night. Her voice trembled when I picked up. “Bhai… you need to come home.” There are certain tones in a person’s voice that freeze your blood. This was one of them. “What happened?” I asked, already standing up, my heart racing. “Just come. Please.” The drive home felt endless. Every red light felt personal, as though the universe had chosen to delay me. My mind ran through a hundred possibilities—none of them good. By the time I reached the house, my hands were shaking. The front door was open. That was the first sign that something was wrong. Inside, the living room lights were on, but the house felt darker than ever. My mother sat on the couch, her face pale, her hands wrapped tightly around her scarf. Areeba stood beside her, eyes red from crying. “Where’s Abbu?” I asked. No one answered. That silence said more than words ever could. “He left,” my mother finally whispered. Left. The word didn’t make sense. My father wasn’t the kind of man who “left.” He was the quiet pillar of our home—the one who paid the bills, fixed broken taps, and watched the news every night at exactly 10 p.m. “He said he couldn’t do this anymore,” Areeba said, her voice cracking. “He packed a bag and walked out.” It felt like the floor shifted beneath me. For years, I had noticed the tension. The late-night arguments behind closed doors. The cold silences at dinner. The forced smiles during family gatherings. But I had convinced myself it was temporary. Every family has problems, I thought. We’ll get through it. That night, I realized denial can be a dangerous comfort. “Did he say where he’s going?” I asked. My mother shook her head. “He just said he needs peace.” Peace. The word echoed bitterly in my mind. What about us? What about the peace of the family he was leaving behind? I walked into my parents’ bedroom. The cupboard door was slightly open. Half his clothes were gone. His watch box was empty. On the bedside table, there was a folded piece of paper. It wasn’t addressed to anyone. Just a few lines in his familiar handwriting: I tried. I really did. But sometimes staying hurts more than leaving. Forgive me. I read it three times, hoping the meaning would change. It didn’t. Anger rose inside me like fire. How could he walk away? How could he leave my mother to explain this to relatives, to neighbors, to a society that thrives on whispers? How could he leave Areeba, who still needed him to check her math homework? And how could he leave me—with the sudden weight of being “the man of the house”? That night, everything fell apart—not just our family structure, but the illusions I had built around it. Around midnight, the power went out. Normally, we would joke about the timing. That night, no one said a word. The house sank into darkness, lit only by the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. I sat on the floor beside my mother. For the first time in my life, she looked small. “I failed,” she murmured. “You didn’t,” I said quickly, though I wasn’t sure what I believed. “This isn’t your fault.” But blame has a way of creeping into broken spaces. It fills the gaps with questions that have no answers. Around 2 a.m., my phone buzzed. A message from Abbu. Take care of them. That was it. No explanation. No location. No promise to return. Just a responsibility handed over like an inheritance. I stared at the screen, my chest tight. I wanted to call him, to shout, to demand answers. Instead, I turned the phone off. Because deep down, I knew this wasn’t just about one fight or one bad day. This was years of unspoken pain finally spilling over. As the night stretched on, reality settled in. Tomorrow, I would have to face relatives asking uncomfortable questions. I would have to manage finances I barely understood. I would have to be strong for my sister when I felt like collapsing myself. But in that darkness, something unexpected happened. We talked. For the first time in years, my mother opened up about her loneliness. About how silence had replaced partnership. About how pride had stopped both of them from seeking help. Areeba admitted she had heard more arguments than we realized. And I confessed that I had seen the cracks but chose to ignore them because it was easier than confronting the truth. The night that broke us also stripped us of pretenses. By dawn, the sky softened into pale blue. Birds began to chirp as if nothing had changed. But everything had. Our family would never look the same again. There would be judgment, financial strain, and emotional wounds that wouldn’t heal overnight. There would be moments of anger and days of deep sadness. Yet, as sunlight slowly filled the room, I understood something important: Falling apart doesn’t always mean the end. Sometimes, it’s the beginning of rebuilding—without lies, without forced smiles, without pretending everything is fine. That night, I lost the version of my family I thought I had. But I gained something else. Clarity. Strength I didn’t know I possessed. And the painful, necessary understanding that love cannot survive where honesty is absent. The night everything fell apart was the worst night of my life.
By Ubaid 16 days ago in Families
What Fathers Uniquely Provide
The Error of Treating Parenting Roles as Functionally Identical Modern parenting theory often begins with the assumption that mothers and fathers are largely interchangeable, differing only in style or temperament. From this view, any deficits in one parent can be compensated for by the other through increased emotional effort, sensitivity, or presence. Parenting becomes a question of intention and quantity rather than function and role. This assumption is appealing because it aligns with cultural preferences for symmetry and fairness, but it collapses under closer examination of developmental outcomes.
By Peter Thwing - Host of the FST Podcast20 days ago in Families
Chicago Communities on Edge as State Probes Alleged Landlord Tip to lCE. AI-Generated.
A recent ICE raid in Chicago has once again put immigrant communities on high alert, and now Illinois state authorities are investigating claims that a landlord may have tipped off federal agents before the operation. The raid, which targeted residents of a South Shore apartment building, led to dozens of arrests and left families shaken, fueling questions about tenant safety, civil rights, and community trust.
By Asad Aliabout a month ago in Families
Men who eat nuts tend to have better quality sperm
Peak Potency: How a Daily Nut Habit Elevates Male Sperm Quality Male fertility rates have dropped in recent years. Many couples struggle to conceive, and men often overlook their role in this challenge. Your diet can make a big difference here. Nuts stand out as a simple fix. They pack antioxidants and healthy fats that support better sperm quality. Think of them as fuel for your reproductive system. Studies show men who eat nuts regularly see real gains in sperm health. If you're planning a family or just want peak vitality, adding nuts could be your smart move.
By Story silver book about a month ago in Families
Bettijo Hirschi
Introduction Bettijo Hirschi is a multi‑talented creative professional from the United States. She works as a designer, art director, photographer, writer, and event planner. Bettijo has built a long career in creative work and media. People know her for her artistic skills, her work in magazines and television, and her lifestyle blog. She is also known in recent news because of changes in her personal life.
By Farhan Sayedabout a month ago in Families
The Love That Stays Off-Camera
I didn’t notice the fire until it was almost too late. It was a Tuesday in late October. Dry wind, brittle leaves, the kind of air that crackles with danger. I was inside, scrolling through bad news on my phone, when the smell hit—acrid, sharp, wrong. I ran outside just as smoke curled over the ridge behind our street.
By KAMRAN AHMAD2 months ago in Families
The Last Gallop
In a small village nestled between golden wheat fields and sun-cracked hills, there lived a horse named Bahar. He wasn’t sleek or swift, nor did he have a pedigree worth boasting about. His coat was dull in places, his legs bore old scars, and one ear was half-torn from a long-forgotten storm. But to twelve-year-old Rehan, Bahar was more than a horse—he was memory, comfort, and home.
By meerjanan2 months ago in Families
The Static Hum of Home
Unit 734, or Sevy, as Leo had insisted on calling it, hovered a precise 1.7 meters off the floor, gliding through the Miller household. Breakfast chaos, same as every Tuesday. Sarah was yelling about lost gym socks, Tom was trying to read the news feed on his wrist, and Leo, ten years old and perpetually sticky, was attempting to build a waffle tower that defied all laws of physics. Sevy smoothly cleared the spilled orange juice, the faint scent of synthetic cleaner a counterpoint to the burnt toast. Its optical sensors registered the minute tremors in Sarah’s hands, the tense set of Tom’s jaw, the pure, unadulterated glee on Leo’s face as his waffle structure finally collapsed.
By HAADI2 months ago in Families
The Weight of Pages
The dust was a living thing, a fine, glittering shroud over everything. It clung to the cracked spines of the books, coated the spectacles Martha perched on the bridge of her nose, even seemed to settle in the faint lines around Eleanor’s eyes. This wasn't some grand, public institution. This was Grandfather Silas’s library, two high-ceilinged rooms added onto the back of Martha’s rambling, slightly damp Victorian. It stank of old paper, the faint sourness of leather decay, and something else – expectation. Eleanor hated it. She hated the quiet that amplified every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of their clothes, every sigh her mother let escape.
By HAADI2 months ago in Families