One for the Murphys

I’ll admit, I side-eyed this book at first. Foster-kid stories can veer into afterschool-special territory, but *One for the Murphys* gut-punched me within minutes. Carley’s voice—equal parts wisecracking and wounded—is so distinct that when Nora Hunter’s narration kicked in, it felt like eavesdropping on a real kid’s inner monologue. Hunter’s performance is *that* good: she makes Carley’s defensiveness physical, her sarcasm a shield you can *hear* clanking into place. The Murphys, meanwhile, avoid being saintly caricatures. Mrs. Murphy’s patience has edges, the kids are authentically annoying, and even the hockey-obsessed dad’s corny jokes land because Hunter sells his dad-energy without overdoing it. The story’s pacing is deliberate, almost stubborn. Carley’s walls don’t crumble in a single cathartic scene; they erode slowly, through a thousand small moments—a shared meal, a misplaced trust, a betrayal that feels devastatingly real. My only critique? The hockey subplot sometimes drags (I fast-forwarded through a few play-by-play sequences), and Carley’s lash-outs can feel repetitive in the middle act. But the payoff—when it comes—is earned. The production is clean, with no distracting edits, though I wished for slightly more dynamic range in the quieter scenes. By the end, I was bawling in my car, not because the story manipulates, but because it *understands*. This isn’t a book about fixing a broken kid; it’s about a kid learning she doesn’t have to be fixed to be loved.