Last year, I considered why I find it difficult to review autobiographies. I recently read another which I just can’t find the right words for: I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy. This book was all over my social feeds a year or two ago. It won the Goodreads Choice Awards for Best Memoir in 2022. The shocking title, along with the strange cover design – the author in an old-fashioned pink suit, holding a pink urn, with an expression hard to read – intrigued me and it was on my TBR until I got it from the library. I hadn’t heard of Jennette McCurdy before, but this didn’t make any difference to the impact of the book. Her mother, a cancer survivor, pushed Jennette into acting, enabled her eating disorder and controlled her life. Jennette did not realise she was a victim of abuse and only wanted to make her mother happy. It’s a very uncomfortable read which I had to get through quickly as it was so disturbing, although well-written and not without a grim humour. I feel that anything I write will not do this book justice. Still, this is a review, of sorts.