I finished The Children by Melissa Albert a little while ago and I’ve been sitting with it, letting it settle. It’s one of those novels that lingers in the corners of your mind, not loudly, but with a quiet, persistent unease. The story follows Guinevere Sharpe, who grew up in an isolated Vermont farmhouse with her brother Ennis and their parents. Their mother, Edith Sharpe, was a celebrated author whose Ninth City fantasy series turned her children into beloved fictional heroes. The reality behind those stories is far stranger and far more troubling. Guin and Ennis were neglected, left to roam the woods like half wild creatures while their mother wrote them into a magical world that bore little resemblance to the one they actually lived in.

The novel moves between Guin’s childhood and her adult life. In the present, she is promoting a ghostwritten memoir and coasting on the remnants of her mother’s fame. Her estranged brother suddenly announces a new art installation titled *Mother*, which stirs up rumours about their past and forces Guin to confront memories she has spent years trying to outrun. The book slowly tightens its grip as Guin begins to question what really happened the night of the fire that killed their parents and left Edith’s famous series unfinished.

What worked best for me was the atmosphere. Albert has a gift for creating a sense that something is slightly off, as though the world is tilting a fraction out of place. The supernatural elements are subtle, often ambiguous enough that you could explain them away, yet they still leave a faint chill. The real heart of the story, though, is the examination of childhood neglect and the way it shapes a person long after they’ve left the place where it happened. Guin’s bond with Ennis is the emotional centre of the book, and the ache of that lost connection is beautifully rendered.

I did find the ending a little unsatisfying. There are threads that never quite come together and a sense that the story rushes toward its conclusion after taking its time everywhere else. Even so, Albert’s writing is so striking that I stayed fully engaged.

Readers who enjoy atmospheric, haunting narratives with a touch of magical realism will likely find a lot to appreciate here. It’s a moody, unsettling exploration of family legacy and the stories we inherit, whether we want them or not.

In the end, I’m glad I read it. It’s imperfect, but it’s memorable, and it left me thinking….

Thank you to Bloomsbury Publishing, Tandem Collective and Netgalley for the chance to read this book #BloomsburyBigNightIn2026.