I was a daughter who left her mother. This is a fairly common experience, from my understanding of the world, many children leave their parents, either to move down the street or across the country. My act of leaving was comparatively short in distance but long in duration, as I packed my suitcase once and never brought it back.
Blue Light Hours (Grove Press, Black Cat) by author and Grinnell College instructor Bruna Dantas Lobato perfectly encapsulates the sweet melancholy of being a child who has left, and a parent who has been left, immersing the reader in gentle goodbyes.
The novel — expanded from a short story originally published in the New Yorker — is broken into three sections, “Daughter,” “Mother” and “Reunion.” The first-person “Daughter” follows the unnamed narrator as she arrives in the United States to attend school. Her heart lives in two countries as she falls in love with Vermont but aches for Brazil, her joint desires making it impossible for her to fully exist in a single space. She and her mother connect through Skype calls, their conversations riddled with conflicting needs — to be longed for and to be happy.
The narrative changes to a third-person close perspective for “Mother,” allowing the reader to see how her mother spends her days trying to determine her place in the world when she is not defining herself as a caretaker. Her fear, joy and pride are all visceral despite the slight removal in the narrative structure, showing that third-person perspectives can be just as intimate as first. The final section of the novel remains in third person, but slips effortlessly between mother and daughter as “Reunion” explores the way they have changed and stayed the same, becoming reflections of each other even as they have also gained new identities.
Dantas Lobato’s skill with language and detail cannot be lauded enough. In a world filled with tragic familial narratives, this novel wastes no time lingering on the absent father figure — the tragedy here is that of growing older. The daughter’s moments of growth are subtle, but unfurl under her mother’s digital gaze. She increasingly takes on the role of an emotional caretaker to her mother, keeping more of her true desires and increasing guilt to herself.
Her central conflict is achingly relatable, which makes the transition to the mother’s perspective so vital. The mother, despite her mourning, only wants what is best for her child. This desire is also the offer of forgiveness, for both her daughter and the external reader. It offers a balm we did not ask for, but that many of us need.
In many ways, Blue Light Hours is unhurried. Its pace matches the winter walks the daughter takes through the first segment of the book. With a less skilled author, I would define it as slow, but Dantas Lobato’s scenes are so intentional and delicately crafted that I instead settled in for the journey.
Dantas Lobato is a master in the art of subtlety, gentle relationships and identity. For a little while, Blue Light Hours offered me a reprieve from the world and left me feeling at ease. Even in its sadness, it is stunning in its beauty.
This article was originally published in Little Village’s April 2025 issue.
