A poem by Anthony Walton, and discussions of complicated family dynamics in a novella by Ágota Kristóf, novels by Anne Tyler and Jemimah Wei, and a short story by Ayşegül Savaş

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Line was waiting for me at the factory entrance, leaning against the wall. She looked so pale and sad that I decided to stop and talk to her.
—From Yesterday, a novella by Ágota Kristóf, translated from the French by David Watson (Dover Publications, Inc., 2019). The book was originally published in Paris, France, as Hier (Éditions du Seuil, 1996). The English-language translation was originally published in London, England (Secker & Warburg, 1997).

Please note: although it's not as graphic as The Notebook Trilogy, this book does contain some subject matter that may not be suitable for everyone.     

I was in Istanbul for a few days and on my way to visit my grandfather. He'd moved in with my father at the beginning of the pandemic because we had been worried about him living alone, in the town by the Black Sea where he'd retired.
—From "Freedom to Move," a short story by Ayşegül Savaş, The New Yorker (July 22, 2024), pp. 50-54.

Arin was somewhere in Germany when my mother got sick again. She'd been sick before, but never like this, and I knew it was only a matter of time before she would change her mind and start asking for Arin. The prospect filled me with dread. My sister and I hadn't spoken for years, not since she first got famous, not even when my mother was diagnosed with aggressive breast cancer a couple of years ago. Back then, too, I'd been afraid that if things got really bad, my mother would want Arin there.
—From The Original Daughter, a novel by Jemimah Wei (Doubleday, 2025). 

We are driving the Middle West, lost
as Oklahoma or Kansas slowly spins
—From "Dead Reckoning," a poem by Anthony Walton, The New Yorker (July 22, 2024), pp. 52-53. 

Bonus book to read again: 

While Cody's father nailed the target to the tree trunk, Cody tested the bow. He drew the string back, laid his cheek against it, and narrowed his eyes at the target. His father was pounding in tacks with his shoe; he hadn't thought to bring a hammer. He looked like a fool, Cody thought. He owned no weekend clothes, as other fathers did, but had driven to this field in his strained-looking brown striped salesman suit, white starched shirt, and navy tie with multicolored square and circles scattered randomly across it. 
—From Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant, a novel by Anne Tyler (Alfred A. Knopf, 1982).