A review by seeceeread
Seven Empty Houses by Samanta Schweblin

She had concluded that even in old age, death needed a final push, a emotional nudge, or a physical one. And she couldn't give that to her body. She wanted to die, but every morning, inevitably, she woke up again.

A woman contrives access to another socioeconomic class. A shut-in with dementia and paranoia accidentally harms her neighbors. A forgotten little girl receives intimate assistance from an unnamed man. An ex-husband's nudist parents initiate his children while his wife frantically looks for them.

Much fiction is about romance, self-actualization, triumph and security and contentment. Schweblin writes into the friction of neighbors who cannot trust each other, soured marriages, the endless imbalances between loved ones, and small disagreements ... or misunderstandings. This is not horror or gore or fearful. She's feeling for the textures of dialed down, yet common – and unpleasant – emotions: inadequacy, aggravation, hesitation. Her sentences often surprise. Likewise, perhaps many shorts end abruptly because there is little formula for this in fiction (and minimal guidance in day-to-day life for managing these recurring slights). We wax, wane, serve, return. And start the next one.