Ohmygoodness this book. Official title: We Need to Talk About Kevin. Unofficial title: The Destroyer of Worlds.Most of you have heard of this little doozy and are familiar with the premise, especially with the recent release of the movie adaptation, starring Tilda Swinton (SWINTON!). But I will regale you with a synopsis anyway, if only to refresh my own memory at the risk of reawakening those feelings of horror that have subsided somewhat since I put The Destroyer back on the shelf.The story is told entirely through letters, written by Eva Katchadourian to her estranged husband, Franklin. In these letters, she dissects her role as a wife and mother, starting with the euphoria of the early years of their marriage and traveling through the life-shattering events set in motion by the birth of their son, Kevin.Right away, we know Kevin is serving time for brutally murdering seven students, a teacher, and a cafeteria worker at his high school. So, with the Big Event out of the way, every incident from Kevin’s childhood (from birth to age 17) that Eva rehashes in her letters to Franklin is endowed with the chilling clarity of hindsight, if only that provided by her limited perspective. So, yes, you start out knowing a big portion of the story . . . but don't for a minute think you know everything. I promise you, you don't.This book is a slow burner with SO MUCH depth and nuance, and an ominous buildup like you wouldn’t believe. It’s a passenger train steadily gaining speed over miles and miles of track, barreling inevitably toward the cliff’s edge—a fate made all the more tragic by the fact that we can all see it coming. There will be victims, and there's nothing we can do about it. I can’t even tell you. I just DID tell you . . . but it’s not enough. I must SHOW you.“Maybe it goes without saying that the pea plants died, as did the sprouting avocado that replaced them, while at the same time I noticed idly that I was missing a bottle of bleach. There were mysteries: Subsequent to a particular day in January, the moment I led Kevin by the hand into the classroom, a little girl with Shirley Temple curls began to cry, and her wailing worsened until at some point in February she never came back. Another boy, aggressive and rambunctious in September, one of those biffy sorts always boxing your leg and pushing other kids in the sandbox, suddenly became silent and inward, developing at once a severe case of asthma and an inexplicable terror of the coat closet, within five feet of which he would begin to wheeze. What did that have to do with Kevin? I couldn’t say; perhaps nothing.” (p. 178)“Remember when you wanted to buy Kevin a dog? I begged you not to. I was glad you never forced me to explain, since I never explained it to myself. I just know that whenever I envisioned our bouncing black lab, or trusting Irish setter, I was filled with horror.” (p. 181)Aside from the obvious paranoid fixations this story evokes in readers, it taps into a very particular and enduring fear of mine: that kids will come between me and my husband---that having children, when we do, will destroy our marriage. I don't know what to do toward allaying that fear, but I think never reading this book again as long as I live might be a good start.