I started reading this book hoping to find some guidance in navigating grief. I didn't find that, but Adichie, eloquent as ever, gave me something else: companionship in grief. I enjoyed reading about her father. It is clear how much she loved him. 

A personal account more than general musings on grief. But then again grief feels deeply personal, and somehow it's universal in that.

I see myself returning to this.

It's hard to rate this, as it is such a personal book. I felt like I was reading Chimamanda's journal at the time and not necessarily a book. 

As someone who often reads about grief, I felt like althought she told me what was happening that was it. It did not present something new to me, in the sense that it still seems like the work of someone who just now meet grief and not yet had the time to duel on it and elaborate about it. And I do not say this trying to make it sound like it was a poor book. It was an intimate one, I almost felt like an intruder at times. 

It was beautiful and sad to hear about her love and I did like her narration.