I'm disappointed I didn't enjoy The Mad Wife more. The blurb and all the glowing reviews had me believing this was a certain type of story, but it turned out to be something else entirely.
I originally picked this up thinking it was a careful exploration of what it meant to be a woman, a wife, and a mother in the 1950s (and how that might still apply to today). And the thing is, the book does start out that way. We meet Lulu, housewife extraordinaire—or at least she's trying to be with one young kid and another on the way. She lives in the Stepford-esque neighborhood of Greenwood, where all the wives stick to a very rigid schedule of cleaning and cooking to meet the "perfect housewife" standard.
But then, as the story progressed, it started to get wonky. Lulu didn't communicate, not with her husband, not with her friends, not with her family. Every time someone asked if she was all right, she said she was good and great and absolutely. But then she would get upset that they didn't read her mind or understand her. Yep, that's the sound of me sighing my way through this in exasperation.
There was also the storyline with the neighbors who moved in across the street. Lulu spends so much mental energy lamenting how others judged her for her appearance and her inability to present as the perfect housewife, yet she turned right around and judged Bitsy back, constantly making jabs to her face and behind her back. Am I supposed to be sympathetic to that? I really don't know.
It's one thing if us reader can't see where a story is going and we're taken by surprise and delight when it all comes together in the end. But it's another altogether if the author doesn't know where the story is going either. And that's the distinct feeling I got here. And so the tale ambled on, seemingly without direction or intention.
But I hung on, thinking there was some grand reveal or lesson at the end that would make all my bewilderment worth it. But when it finally unfolded, I was more puzzled than ever. What was the point of this story? If felt like the author spent the majority of time walking us down a very specific path, and then she spent the last part of the book walking it all back.
[View spoiler below]
Even the tone of the story was inconsistent and wishy-washy, contributing to the confusion I felt. It started out as dark humor very much in the vein of The Stepford Wives, with those checklists and Lulu's molded food. But then slowly and surely, the humor was dropped and all that was left was the dark. And it was very dark, make no mistake, so check your trigger warnings carefully if you're sensitive to that.
This felt so much like a bait and switch to me. I picked it up hoping for a complex look into being a wife and a mother. But by the end of the book, I wasn't sure what the heck I was reading anymore, though it certainly wasn't that.
But hey, I'm in the minority here. I see nothing but glowing reviews for this book, so don't let me dissuade you. I suspect this is a case where the story just didn't match the reader, and that happens from time to time.
Readaroo Rating: 2 stars
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[Spoiler] This book is about how tough it is to be a wife and a mother in the 1950s. But no, actually, she had depression and psychosis stemming from the loss of her baby. This is about how unsupportive husbands were towards their wives. But no, actually, her husband supported her fine and it was all in her head. This is about how she had a mental breakdown from the stresses of her unfulfilling domestic life. Ah, but no again, actually she just had lupus. Like what is even going on in here?
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