Genre Fiction
![Jessamine Chan - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_jessamine_chan.jpg)
The School for Good Mothers: A Novel
Longlisted for the PEN/Hemingway Award for Debut Novel
Longlisted for the 2023 Carnegie Medal for Excellence
Shortlisted for The Center for Fiction 2022 First Novel Prize
Selected as One of Barack Obama's Favorite Books of 2022!
In this New York Times bestseller and Today show Read with Jenna Book Club Pick, one lapse in judgement lands a young mother in a government reform program where custody of her child hangs in the balance, in this "surreal" (People), "remarkable" (Vogue), and "infuriatingly timely" (The New York Times Book Review) debut novel.
Frida Liu is struggling. She doesn't have a career worthy of her Chinese immigrant parents' sacrifices. She can't persuade her husband, Gust, to give up his wellness-obsessed younger mistress. Only with Harriet, their cherubic daughter, does Frida finally attain the perfection expected of her. Harriet may be all she has, but she is just enough.
Until Frida has a very bad day.
The state has its eye on mothers like Frida. The ones who check their phones, letting their children get injured on the playground; who let their children walk home alone. Because of one moment of poor judgement, a host of government officials will now determine if Frida is a candidate for a Big Brother-like institution that measures the success or failure of a mother's devotion.
Faced with the possibility of losing Harriet, Frida must prove that a bad mother can be redeemed. That she can learn to be good.
An "intense" (Oprah Daily), "captivating" (Today) page-turner that is also a transgressive novel of ideas about the perils of "perfect" upper-middle class parenting; the violence enacted upon women by both the state and, at times, one another; the systems that separate families; and the boundlessness of love, The School for Good Mothers introduces, in Frida, an everywoman for the ages. Using dark wit to explore the pains and joys of the deepest ties that bind us, Chan has written a modern literary classic.
Longlisted for the 2023 Carnegie Medal for Excellence
Shortlisted for The Center for Fiction 2022 First Novel Prize
Selected as One of Barack Obama's Favorite Books of 2022!
In this New York Times bestseller and Today show Read with Jenna Book Club Pick, one lapse in judgement lands a young mother in a government reform program where custody of her child hangs in the balance, in this "surreal" (People), "remarkable" (Vogue), and "infuriatingly timely" (The New York Times Book Review) debut novel.
Frida Liu is struggling. She doesn't have a career worthy of her Chinese immigrant parents' sacrifices. She can't persuade her husband, Gust, to give up his wellness-obsessed younger mistress. Only with Harriet, their cherubic daughter, does Frida finally attain the perfection expected of her. Harriet may be all she has, but she is just enough.
Until Frida has a very bad day.
The state has its eye on mothers like Frida. The ones who check their phones, letting their children get injured on the playground; who let their children walk home alone. Because of one moment of poor judgement, a host of government officials will now determine if Frida is a candidate for a Big Brother-like institution that measures the success or failure of a mother's devotion.
Faced with the possibility of losing Harriet, Frida must prove that a bad mother can be redeemed. That she can learn to be good.
An "intense" (Oprah Daily), "captivating" (Today) page-turner that is also a transgressive novel of ideas about the perils of "perfect" upper-middle class parenting; the violence enacted upon women by both the state and, at times, one another; the systems that separate families; and the boundlessness of love, The School for Good Mothers introduces, in Frida, an everywoman for the ages. Using dark wit to explore the pains and joys of the deepest ties that bind us, Chan has written a modern literary classic.
Editorial Reviews
"Jessamine Chan's infuriatingly timely debut novel, The School for Good Mothers, takes this widely accepted armchair quarterbacking of motherhood and ratchets it up to the level of a surveillance state - one that may read more like a preview than a dystopia, depending on your faith in the future of Roe v. Wade...chilling...clever." -THE NEW YORK TIMES REVIEW
"The School for Good Mothers picks up the mantle of writers like Margaret Atwood and Kazuo Ishiguro, with their skin-crawling themes of surveillance, control, and technology; but it also stands on its own as a remarkable, propulsive novel. At a moment when state control over women's bodies (and autonomy) feels ever more chilling, the book feels horrifyingly unbelievable and eerily prescient all at once." -VOGUE
"A surreal, dazzling witty tale." -PEOPLE
"This debut novel was so captivating, thought-provoking and beautifully written, everything I tried to pick up next paled in comparison...It was all I wanted to talk about, think about and read." -THE TODAY SHOW
"Intense, unputdownable debut that will doubtless spark conversation about what makes a good or bad mother." -OPRAH.COM
"It sounds dark and weird, and it is kind of dark and weird, but I found it really, really absorbing." -Linda Holmes, NPR
"It's about Big Things like state violence, family separation, so-called "perfect parenting," and the unrealistic demands of motherhood, with a little sci-fi fun!" -NYLON
"Insightful." -BUSTLE
"This scarily prescient novel that's reminiscent of Orwell and Vonnegut explores the depths of parents' love, how strictly we judge mothers and each other and the terrifying potential of government overreach." -GOOD HOUSEKEEPING
"An incisive thriller on modern-day parenting." -HEY ALMA
"In this debut novel about the launch of a government program meant to correct "bad" mothering, Chan collects the judgments and pressures that society places on women who deign to be multifaceted and trans...
"The School for Good Mothers picks up the mantle of writers like Margaret Atwood and Kazuo Ishiguro, with their skin-crawling themes of surveillance, control, and technology; but it also stands on its own as a remarkable, propulsive novel. At a moment when state control over women's bodies (and autonomy) feels ever more chilling, the book feels horrifyingly unbelievable and eerily prescient all at once." -VOGUE
"A surreal, dazzling witty tale." -PEOPLE
"This debut novel was so captivating, thought-provoking and beautifully written, everything I tried to pick up next paled in comparison...It was all I wanted to talk about, think about and read." -THE TODAY SHOW
"Intense, unputdownable debut that will doubtless spark conversation about what makes a good or bad mother." -OPRAH.COM
"It sounds dark and weird, and it is kind of dark and weird, but I found it really, really absorbing." -Linda Holmes, NPR
"It's about Big Things like state violence, family separation, so-called "perfect parenting," and the unrealistic demands of motherhood, with a little sci-fi fun!" -NYLON
"Insightful." -BUSTLE
"This scarily prescient novel that's reminiscent of Orwell and Vonnegut explores the depths of parents' love, how strictly we judge mothers and each other and the terrifying potential of government overreach." -GOOD HOUSEKEEPING
"An incisive thriller on modern-day parenting." -HEY ALMA
"In this debut novel about the launch of a government program meant to correct "bad" mothering, Chan collects the judgments and pressures that society places on women who deign to be multifaceted and trans...
Readers Top Reviews
jimenaMary Linski
The premise is good: without giving away too much of the plot, women (and, to a lesser extent, men) that fail to be "good parents" are sent to an en experimental facility where they will spend a year away from their children learning how to become better. It's clearly a dystopian novel, a genre I'm quite fond of and enjoy. My problem was just how unbelievable everything was. And this comes from a reader that particularly enjoys reading science-fiction and dystopian novels. I take absolutely no issue with alternate realities, where even our wildest dreams (or nightmares) can become true. The book, however, falls short of not convincingly building a world where this insane experiment feels realistic, which makes it difficult for the reader to connect to the story. The anguish of the mother can be felt throughout the book and the infuriating circumstances she must face are depicted in all their horror, but it was hard to get into it because of how unrealistic it all felt. Found myself rushing through the middle of the book just hoping to be done with it, which is rare for me. As I said, there are some great things to it: both the beginning and end are good, the family and racial dynamics are poignantly expressed, and the anguish of our main character is clearly there. I just wished someone had done a more thorough job at editing this book, cause it could have been great.
Alecia Huttonjime
Of people making a bad decision and being punished for it the rest of their lives. I cried when she lost her child like a baby. I cheered at the ending and hope they get away. Thank you for such a lovely story.
Samantha KalanyAl
I've got to admit. This was hard to get through. I'm not mother, but just as a woman, this hurt. I have a few friends who work Social Work services and they often detail how physically and mentally exhausting it is, taking children from poor living situations, and truly just trying to do right by them, but they get sucked into a system that doesn't have their side, and therefore the downward spiral ensues. I really did cheer for these "bad mothers" at times, because it felt like the government was too hard on them and expected them to some 1950s version of perfect to their children. Gust was mostly blame... and I feel like he deserved more criticism, here. I mean who cheats on their pregnant wife? There isn't really a mothering school in the real world, that everyone has the financial stability to have access to, I feel like mothers learn from experiences, not AI-enhanced life-size dolls and million-dollar government rehabilitation programs. I was my parents "guinea pig child" I got bumps and scrapes along the way, but I feel like my parents and I grew together, and with every kid that came after, they got better. I know this is Science Fiction/Dystopian Fiction novel, but I just felt like those women in lab coats were so hard on some of the mothers, now yes the physical and emotional abuse is not okay, and that shouldn't be tolerated, but still. I enjoyed the book, but it made me very sad and I'm upset about Frida's outcome, because it's not looking very bright where she's headed. I'm definitely in search of a palette cleanser now. 4/5 Not for the weak-minded/hearted
DCCSamantha Kalan
I has a lot of details that makes you feel like you actually there w them and it's easy to read. If she writes another book I definitely going to biy it.
Kindle DCCSamant
Our Narrator makes a “mistake” as she calls it, but it leads to a newly formed and experimental child protective services solution. The author writes a compelling version of what can happen if, in this instance, poor parenting is corrected at a state level. What ensues is a training method out of your nightmares. All the more chilling for a female reader, is how close we as a society can turn the screw - as seen in current women’s rights issues. It also explores AI and while futuristic, no longer Improbable. What once seemed untenable becomes the norm.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1 1.
"WE HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER."
It's the first Tuesday in September, the afternoon of her one very bad day, and Frida is trying to stay on the road. On the voice mail, the officer tells her to come to the station immediately. She pauses the message, puts down her phone. It's 2:46 p.m. She meant to get home an hour and a half ago. She pulls onto the first side street off Grays Ferry and double-parks. She calls back and begins apologizing, explaining that she lost track of time.
"Is she okay?"
The officer says the child is safe. "Ma'am, we've been trying to reach you."
Frida hangs up and calls Gust, has to leave a message. He needs to meet her at the station at Eleventh and Wharton. "There's a problem. It's Harriet." Her voice catches. She repeats the officer's promise that their daughter is safe.
As she begins driving again, she reminds herself to stay under the speed limit, to avoid running red lights, to breathe. All through Labor Day weekend, she felt frantic. Last Friday and Saturday, she had her usual insomnia, sleeping two hours each night. On Sunday, when Gust dropped off Harriet for Frida's three and a half days of custody, Harriet was in the throes of an ear infection. That night, Frida slept ninety minutes. Last night, an hour. Harriet's crying has been relentless, too big for her body, too loud for the walls of their tiny house to absorb. Frida did what she could. She sang lullabies, rubbed Harriet's chest, gave her extra milk. She laid on the floor next to Harriet's crib, held her impossibly perfect hand through the bars, kissed her knuckles, her fingernails, feeling for the ones that needed to be trimmed, praying for Harriet's eyes to close.
The afternoon sun is burning as Frida pulls up to the station, located two blocks from her house in an old Italian neighborhood in South Philly. She parks and rushes to the reception desk, asks if the receptionist has seen her daughter, a toddler, eighteen months old; half Chinese, half white; big brown eyes, curly dark brown hair with bangs.
"You must be the mother," the receptionist says.
The receptionist, an elderly white woman wearing a smear of pink lipstick, emerges from behind the desk. Her eyes flick over Frida from head to toe, pausing at Frida's feet, her worn-out Birkenstocks.
The station seems to be mostly empty. The receptionist walks with halting steps, favoring her left leg. She leads Frida down the hall and deposits her in a windowless interrogation room where the walls are a cloying mint green. Frida sits. In crime movies she's seen, the lights are always flickering, but here the glare is steady. She has goose bumps, wishes for a jacket or scarf. Though she's often exhausted on the days she has Harriet, now there's a weight bearing down on her chest, an ache that has passed into her bones, numbing her.
She rubs her arms, her attention fading in and out. She retrieves her phone from the bottom of her purse, cursing herself for not seeing the officer's messages immediately, for having silenced her phone this morning after getting fed up with endless robocalls, for having forgotten to turn the ringer back on. In the past twenty minutes, Gust has called six times and sent a stream of worried texts.
Here, she writes finally. Come soon. She should call back, but she's afraid. During her half of the week, Gust calls every night to find out if Harriet has new words or motor skills. She hates the disappointment in his voice when she fails to deliver. But Harriet is changing in other ways: a stronger grip, noticing a new detail in a book, holding Frida's gaze longer when they kiss good night.
Resting her forearms on the metal table, Frida puts her head down and falls asleep for a split second. She looks up and spots a camera in the corner of the ceiling. Her mind returns to Harriet. She'll buy a carton of strawberry ice cream, Harriet's favorite. When they get home, she'll let Harriet play in the tub as long as she wants. She'll read Harriet extra books at bedtime. I Am a Bunny. Corduroy.
The officers enter without knocking. Officer Brunner, the one who called, is a burly white man in his twenties with acne at the corners of his mouth. Officer Harris is a middle-aged Black man with a perfectly groomed mustache and strong shoulders.
She stands and shakes hands with both of them. They ask to see her driver's license, confirm that she's Frida Liu.
"Where is my baby?"
"Sit down," Officer Brunner says, glancing at Frida's chest. He flips his notebook to a blank page. "Ma'am...
"WE HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER."
It's the first Tuesday in September, the afternoon of her one very bad day, and Frida is trying to stay on the road. On the voice mail, the officer tells her to come to the station immediately. She pauses the message, puts down her phone. It's 2:46 p.m. She meant to get home an hour and a half ago. She pulls onto the first side street off Grays Ferry and double-parks. She calls back and begins apologizing, explaining that she lost track of time.
"Is she okay?"
The officer says the child is safe. "Ma'am, we've been trying to reach you."
Frida hangs up and calls Gust, has to leave a message. He needs to meet her at the station at Eleventh and Wharton. "There's a problem. It's Harriet." Her voice catches. She repeats the officer's promise that their daughter is safe.
As she begins driving again, she reminds herself to stay under the speed limit, to avoid running red lights, to breathe. All through Labor Day weekend, she felt frantic. Last Friday and Saturday, she had her usual insomnia, sleeping two hours each night. On Sunday, when Gust dropped off Harriet for Frida's three and a half days of custody, Harriet was in the throes of an ear infection. That night, Frida slept ninety minutes. Last night, an hour. Harriet's crying has been relentless, too big for her body, too loud for the walls of their tiny house to absorb. Frida did what she could. She sang lullabies, rubbed Harriet's chest, gave her extra milk. She laid on the floor next to Harriet's crib, held her impossibly perfect hand through the bars, kissed her knuckles, her fingernails, feeling for the ones that needed to be trimmed, praying for Harriet's eyes to close.
The afternoon sun is burning as Frida pulls up to the station, located two blocks from her house in an old Italian neighborhood in South Philly. She parks and rushes to the reception desk, asks if the receptionist has seen her daughter, a toddler, eighteen months old; half Chinese, half white; big brown eyes, curly dark brown hair with bangs.
"You must be the mother," the receptionist says.
The receptionist, an elderly white woman wearing a smear of pink lipstick, emerges from behind the desk. Her eyes flick over Frida from head to toe, pausing at Frida's feet, her worn-out Birkenstocks.
The station seems to be mostly empty. The receptionist walks with halting steps, favoring her left leg. She leads Frida down the hall and deposits her in a windowless interrogation room where the walls are a cloying mint green. Frida sits. In crime movies she's seen, the lights are always flickering, but here the glare is steady. She has goose bumps, wishes for a jacket or scarf. Though she's often exhausted on the days she has Harriet, now there's a weight bearing down on her chest, an ache that has passed into her bones, numbing her.
She rubs her arms, her attention fading in and out. She retrieves her phone from the bottom of her purse, cursing herself for not seeing the officer's messages immediately, for having silenced her phone this morning after getting fed up with endless robocalls, for having forgotten to turn the ringer back on. In the past twenty minutes, Gust has called six times and sent a stream of worried texts.
Here, she writes finally. Come soon. She should call back, but she's afraid. During her half of the week, Gust calls every night to find out if Harriet has new words or motor skills. She hates the disappointment in his voice when she fails to deliver. But Harriet is changing in other ways: a stronger grip, noticing a new detail in a book, holding Frida's gaze longer when they kiss good night.
Resting her forearms on the metal table, Frida puts her head down and falls asleep for a split second. She looks up and spots a camera in the corner of the ceiling. Her mind returns to Harriet. She'll buy a carton of strawberry ice cream, Harriet's favorite. When they get home, she'll let Harriet play in the tub as long as she wants. She'll read Harriet extra books at bedtime. I Am a Bunny. Corduroy.
The officers enter without knocking. Officer Brunner, the one who called, is a burly white man in his twenties with acne at the corners of his mouth. Officer Harris is a middle-aged Black man with a perfectly groomed mustache and strong shoulders.
She stands and shakes hands with both of them. They ask to see her driver's license, confirm that she's Frida Liu.
"Where is my baby?"
"Sit down," Officer Brunner says, glancing at Frida's chest. He flips his notebook to a blank page. "Ma'am...
