Not My Mother

I’ll admit, I rolled my eyes at first—another missing white girl, another grieving mother. But *Not My Mother* gutted me in ways I didn’t expect. Smith’s real talent isn’t the twist (though it’s brutal) but her ability to make the mundane terrifying. The way the protagonist fixates on another mother’s grief, the way she *competes* with it, is one of the most disturbing portrayals of female rivalry I’ve encountered in thriller fiction. There’s a scene in a grocery store—just two women chatting about organic baby food—where the tension had me gripping my steering wheel. Allman’s narration sells it; she doesn’t just read the subtext, she *embodies* it. Her voice drops to a whisper during the protagonist’s darkest thoughts, making you lean in like you’re hearing a confession. That said, the pacing stumbles in the middle. Smith spends too long circling the same psychological beats—yes, we get it, the protagonist is spiraling—before the plot finally lurches forward. And while the ending is satisfyingly bleak, the final reveal about Baby Caroline’s fate feels slightly undercooked compared to the meticulous buildup. Still, the audio production is flawless: the sound design is subtle but effective, with ambient noise (a distant baby’s cry, a pool’s echo) used sparingly to heighten unease. This isn’t a thriller for listeners who want catharsis or clear moral lines. It’s for those who crave a story that crawls under their skin and asks: *What if the monster isn’t the one who took the child, but the one who’s still holding hers?*