The Stepdaughter by Caroline Blackwood is a sharp and unsettling domestic tale filled with bitterness, self-pity, and a creeping sense of dread. It reads like a quiet descent into madness, told through the internal letters of a woman abandoned by her husband and left to care for his troubled teenage daughter.

Blackwood's writing is cold, darkly funny, and unnervingly intimate. The narrator, J, feels like a gothic anti-heroine, comparing herself to Snow White’s evil stepmother while wallowing in jealousy, self-loathing, and growing resentment. The apartment setting adds to the claustrophobia, making it feel as though both women are locked away in their own distorted fairytale.

If you enjoy domestic gothic fiction or psychologically layered narratives about women on the edge, this is a short but lingering read. The tone reminded me of Barbara Comyns, but with a modern bitterness that makes it feel uniquely unsettling.

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I adore Caroline Blackwood and this is a spiky, dark novel. It’s about an abandoned wife’s loathing for her overweight and unlovable stepdaughter who seems to haunt the beautiful penthouse apartment over central park that they both live in. Nothing is ever really resolved and it’s definitely not for anyone who wants to be able to like the main character but it perfectly captures a moment of female rage. It’s about the displacement of anger at men onto other women, those who are more vulnerable and stray into the path, and the writing perfectly captures the claustrophobia of the small flat. I did like it but the very nature of a character who is constrained in their flat means that it just didn't have enough happening within it to fuel my suspense more.

First published in 1976, Irish author Caroline Blackwood’s incredibly unsettling debut reminded me of the domestic gothic associated with writers like Barbara Comyns, particularly Comyns's gruelling representations of callous parents and neglected children in books like The Vet’s Daughter. Unlike that novel, Blackwood’s doesn’t openly delve into the realms of the fantastic but there’s still something fairytale-like about her account of the relationship between an unravelling stepmother and outcast stepdaughter - with its cloistered women walled up in a variation on a mythical castle or tower. Blackwood’s narrator is J who describes herself as a version of Snow White’s evil stepmother. J’s in her thirties but already considered past her prime. J outlines her all-too-familiar crisis in a series of unaddressed letters. J’s wealthy husband Arnold has abandoned her, running off to France with a much younger woman. J’s been allowed to remain in an upscale Manhattan apartment building – not unlike the infamous Dakota - in exchange for keeping their four-year-old Sally Ann and Arnold’s 13-year-old daughter Renata.

Like Lorca’s The House of Bernarda Alba Blackwood’s narrative disrupts the notion that communities of women are automatically benign and supportive. J’s household is horribly fractured and J’s overwhelmed by violent emotions. Blackwood’s focus is on J’s relationship with Renata. Renata arouses J’s intense disgust partly sparked by Renata’s inability - or refusal - to conform to accepted ideals of feminine beauty. Renata’s unruly, “fat” body spills over into the space around her. Described by J as clumsy and ungainly, the reclusive Renata dominates J’s thoughts. J even wonders if Renata’s appearance was the catalyst for Arnold’s departure. But at the same time, it’s clear J’s attempts to be suitably “womanly” haven’t secured her happiness. She once wanted to be a painter but instead gave into the expectations of wifedom. Although J’s still unable to fully relinquish her identity as the partner of a highly-successful man – echoes of Blackwood’s own experience of being relegated to the status of muse/trophy wife to painter Lucien Freud and later poet Robert Lowell.

J’s letters convey her frustrations, her ambivalence and anxieties, all of which revolve around the largely-silent Renata who spends her days in her room watching TV or baking using readymade mixes. J describes Renata in excruciating detail, highlighting her apparent flaws including using too much loo roll and regularly clogging the plumbing. As the seemingly-voracious Renata expands, J gets smaller and smaller burying her personal desires and appetites – in keeping with Arnold’s preferences, he hated being seen with Renata. But J’s equally aware of her own contradictions, tortured by self-loathing over her ambivalence about her maternal role – Sally Ann is consigned to the care of au pair Monique and mostly kept out of sight.

Blackwood’s novel’s thought to be inspired by her difficult interactions with stepdaughter Natalya who died aged 17 in horrific circumstances linked to her use of heroin. But I think reading this solely autobiographically does it a disservice. It’s a remarkably inventive play on the cruel mother, the subject of countless classic stories and ballads. For me, it’s most effective viewed as social and cultural critique, a powerful depiction of the damage inflicted by deep-seated misogyny, so pervasive it’s all-too-easily internalised. J’s situation, her internal conflicts, downing Valium, living life in what’s become a “velvet coffin” is all-too-recognisable. Renata’s arrival coincides with J’s realisation that she’s mired in suffocating domesticity that’s stifled her creativity. In many ways Renata seems to be a mirror, or reflection, of J herself, the spectre of everything she’s so desperately trying to deny. And it seems significant that their confinement in the luxury home provided by Arnold is juxtaposed with a New York riddled with menace and brutality, a perilous place for women who dare to venture out alone. The tantalisingly ambiguous ending may be off-putting for some but I thought it was in keeping with Blackwood’s underlying themes, the problems she’s exploring here - none of which are easily resolved. I read this in the Virago edition which comes with a fascinating introduction by Heidi Julavits.

It seems that even from her debut, Caroline Blackwood was always good at writing really, really horrible people.

From an outward perspective, J appears to have everything: a lavish Upper East Side apartment, a wealthy husband, and Sally Ann, her adored four-year-old daughter. Unfortunately, with it comes Renata. A thirteen-year-old remnant of her husband’s previous marriage, Renata is a sulky interloper in the apartment, addicted to taking over the kitchen with her copious cake-mix baking, and the situations only worsens when J’s husband flees for France with his new flame, leaving J with Renata, her daughter, and the French au pair who makes J feel insecure and isolated in her own home. Desperate for control and with no one to talk to but the recipient of the mental letters she writes, J soon learns that inflicting cruelty is an effective way of wrenching back control, but one which, once started, is exceptionally difficult to stop…

The Stepdaughter, as denoted by its title, is an alternative look at the ‘wicked stepmother’ trope, especially pertinent – and prophetic – in an age where we are keen to analyse how women are affected by motherhood. Like her last book which was republished by Virago, The Fate of Mary Rose, which focused on armchair detectives and whether or not women are truly hysterical in a world which constantly seems to harm them, Blackwood’s work continues to be relevant, especially when we focus on novels with unlikeable female protagonists. There’s also an interesting conversation to be had about the intersection of privilege with unanimous issues across class: while J is a woman with money and a posh apartment in New York, that doesn’t shield her from a cheating husband, a distant stepchild, and her conflict with her role as a mother over her previous career and identity. The Stepdaughter also follows the theme of teenage girls as a periphery: since Renata doesn’t conform to what is expected of her as a teenage girl, whether by J or New York society, what is the ‘incentive’ for J to tolerate her? There is much to be said about how women are turned against women at the whims of cruel, egocentric men, and how women can often resort to cruelty when they feel powerless. While not an outright horror novella, Blackwood manages to create a sense of unnerving dread that would put many horror novels to shame, while creating an absolute gut punch of an ending.

A dark and unsettling psychological drama exploring motherhood, betrayal, emotional cruelty and resentment. Narrated by a woman only identified as J, the story unfolds in a series of unsent letters to an imaginary friend. Living in a luxurious Manhattan apartment, J has been abandoned by her husband who has fled to Paris with his new partner, leaving behind not only their 4-year-old daughter Sally Ann, but also his 13-year-old daughter Renata from a previous relationship. J is so full of anger and resentment at his betrayal that she takes it out on Renata, to devastating effect. J’s mental unravelling is vividly and convincingly described and the book is an unflinching examination of emotional abuse. The simmering antagonism towards Renata is quite terrifying as the reader is left wondering how it will all pan out. Taut, spare writing, psychologically acute, this claustrophobic short novel is both powerful and compelling and I very much enjoyed it.

Having previously read Blackwood’s similarly odd The Fate of Mary Rose, I was especially interested in The Stepdaughter having a female protagonist and narrator who was just as detached and weird as Rowan in the other novel, showing little to no care for the children she’s ostensibly responsible for. Plus I love short books.

The Stepdaughter is a quietly unnerving novella that invites you into a claustrophobic domestic interior, only to slowly twist the knife. Written in sharp, incisive prose, Caroline Blackwood peels back the layers of family life, exposing the psychological erosion that occurs behind closed doors.

We follow J—a woman who seems to be on the verge of a breakdown, or perhaps merely a product of a deeply fractured environment—as she obsesses over her teenage stepdaughter. What begins as concern quickly curdles into resentment, then suspicion, and finally something more sinister. The brilliance of the book lies in its ambiguity: is the stepdaughter truly malicious, or is the narrator simply unraveling?

Blackwood masterfully explores themes of motherhood, displacement, jealousy, and female rage, all while offering a biting critique of bourgeois pretensions. The novella’s brevity only adds to its intensity; every sentence carries weight, and the lack of resolution leaves you lingering in the discomfort.

This new edition is a perfect excuse to (re)discover Blackwood’s unsettling work. A must-read for fans of literary horror, domestic noir, and women on the brink.

Thank you to the publisher and NetGalley for the ARC in exchange for an honest review.

Reading this reminded me a little of Shirley Jackson, one of my favourite authors. Unsettling and dark, this made me question whether J's behaviour is as dark as the letters she is mentally writing to an imaginary recipient, as well as whether her portrayal of those around her is accurate or distorted... A great novella.

I’ve never read anything by Caroline Blackwood, but decided to try this book as I was intrigued by the comparisons to authors like Shirley Jackson and Patricia Highsmith. Although she wrote several novels, short story collections and works of non-fiction, Blackwood, who was a Guinness heiress, seems to have been better known as a socialite and muse (she inspired the art of Lucian Freud and the poetry of Robert Lowell, two of her three husbands). She really deserves to be known for her own work as well as her influence on other people’s and I’m glad to see that some of her books, including this one, have been reissued recently.

The Stepdaughter was first published in 1976 and is novella length, which is a perfect way to try out a new author without having to commit to something longer. The book is narrated by a woman referred to only as J, and takes the form of letters she is ‘writing’ in her mind to an imaginary friend. J has been deserted by Arnold, her husband, who has gone to live in Paris with his French girlfriend, leaving her behind in an expensive Manhattan apartment with their four-year-old daughter and an au pair, whom she dislikes. There’s also a fourth member of the household – Renata, her husband’s teenage daughter from a previous marriage. It seems clear to J that Arnold will only allow her to go on living in the apartment if she continues to look after Renata. The only problem is, she hates the girl, resents her presence and can’t even bear to look at her.

The narrator’s attitude towards Renata is horrible. It’s obvious to the reader that Renata, who is still just a child, is desperately unhappy and in need of love and affection. However, this doesn’t seem to occur to J (or maybe it does, but she doesn’t care). She sees her stepdaughter as someone to be despised – an awkward, overweight, unattractive girl whose only interests are baking and eating cakes and sitting in her bedroom watching television. J uses her imaginary letters as an outlet to express her feelings about Renata and as the book progresses she becomes more and more fixated on her hatred of the girl, blaming her for everything that’s wrong in her life.

The situation in the apartment sounds unbearable, for J but particularly for poor Renata, so it’s not surprising that eventually things do inevitably reach a turning point. It’s not a happy ending and not what I would have preferred, but at least J manages to redeem herself a tiny bit, gaining a deeper understanding of both herself and Renata and regretting that things have happened the way they have. Although J’s sheer nastiness and cruelty make this book an uncomfortable and unsettling read, it’s also a very compelling one. It wouldn’t feel right to say that I ‘enjoyed’ it, but I was gripped by it and read it in one day.

This was a novella of three parts.

The beginning was very cold and mean spirited as J has been left by her husband but has been left an au pair and step daughter in her apartment and she despises them both. She also had a young daughter of her own but doesn’t seem to care for her either. While she is cruel you can see why she acts this way.

The middle part is like quicksand as she finally talks to the step daughter and she (and you) realise that everything we thought so far isn’t as it seems.

Then the ending flows on from there and leaves you with an unsettled feeling.

Very short but very enjoyable with dark undertones.

Things I liked: the claustrophobic setting, the twisted and spiralling mind of J, the lonely atmosphere. I loved spotting elements of Shirley Jackson-esque story-telling in this: the creeping psychological unravelling, the disconnect from reality of the protagonist, the strange dynamic of a home being a prison.

Things I didn't like: the ending felt somewhat rushed and too many things were left unanswered or even referenced. Some of the language was quite disconcerting as a modern reader and J's fixation on Renata's weight was uncomfortable (arguably, the point but still)

Overall, this was an unsettling, intriguing and quick read. I will absolutely be reading more of Blackwood's work and am so excited by the work being done to put her name back on the literary map!

3.5/5 stars

the way Caroline writes her characters is spot on. in all their glory or all their faults. they are real. they are relatable but then they are not. or so we would hope they arent. orr maybe they are just openly flawed and the side of all of us we hope not to see or be seen. haha. it doesnt matter. all i do know is this is such a powerful book with characters that Caroline makes powerful simply by the way she can write humans.
its unsettling at times to read these things. and you would want to rescue all of those living in this situation. but especially the stepdaughter. and i even found myself thinking how she would be in her future having gone through all this. that is how real Caroline does her world which she lets us read into. we wonder long after the book ends.
J isnt lying to herself about who she is. nor does she try to hide the aim of her rage. she has been left by her husband. she has been left with their daughter but also her step daughter Reneta. oh and an au pair. she has an expensive home and money. but that certainly isnt buying happiness. she behave terribly to everyone in that house. but mostly Reneta.
J is cruel. and she picks up on all the things in Reneta that bully's usually would.its sad and its hard to read.
my rage was raged alot of the time towards the awful *beep* of a man that left her in this situation, and he did leave her in this situation. but of course we focus on what is left behind. and once again in this case it is the woman. and they dont cope well.

The Stepdaughter is a reissued novella first published in the 1970s about a woman in a New York City apartment caring for her young daughter and her teenage stepdaughter Renata, the latter of whom she has grown to resent. Written as imaginary letters from the woman to an imagined other person, the novella exposes the claustrophobic atmosphere in the apartment since her husband left, with the woman basically ignoring her thirteen-year-old stepdaughter, her four-year-old daughter, and their French maid. As the story progresses, it becomes clear how much the woman has made up her own mind about many things, and how her behaviour has affected Renata.

This book was described as being similar to Shirley Jackson and you can definitely see that comparison in the style and the nastiness that lurks in this story. Being told from the perspective of the stepmother, and particular through letters she imagines writing out of spite that her French maid has many people to correspond with, really puts you into the horror of her twisted perspective, often nasty in insidious ways that she paints as having a good reason. It feels timeless in the way that a lot of Shirley Jackson's stories do, capturing something about the darkness in human nature.

This is a good story on all accounts but it doesn't stir me much - much like the effort needed to create one of Renata's dreadful instant cakes. And yet. A cake is still a cake.

Short but intriguing and engaging. A really dark and atmospheric story! I will definitely be seeking out more of this authors work.

The Stepdaughter by Caroline Blackwood is fresh and raw and quite dark and unsettling. Painful and uncomfortable but compelling.

Short but compelling, this was a master class of characters that stick with you. I desperately want to know what happened to the main character after this story ends, she was insufferable but so easy to read about. Blackwood built a crafted and intricate world and relationship in so little pages, I’m inclined to pick up anything I see from now on by this author.

Quite an unsettling read, but oh so good. Told in a series of imaginary letters written by J about her situation. She has recently been left by her husband who has moved to paris, and taken up with a young French girl, leaving her behind with his daughter, Renata, as well as their own daughter and an au pair. He has left her with a generous allowance, in an expensive, penthouse apartment in Manhattan, where she sits for hours looking at the view. She behaves appallingly towards the au pair, but even worse towards her step daughter, but she feel see there is an unspoken agreement that she must look after Renata in exchange for her apartment.

She is self aware, and knows that she is being cruel to both girls, but seems unable to help herself. She blames Renata for the break-up of her marriage. Renata is apparently awkward, and doesn't fit in. The husband was embarrassed by her. Now she mainly watched tv in her room, or cooks instant cake mixes.

It's a darkly compelling novella, and though she is described as an evil stepmother, I thought she was broken, and her ex was the real villain of the piece to begin with, by the end, I was less sure. Quick and quite addictive.

*Many thanks to Netgally and Virago for a copy in exchange for an honest opinion.*

Subtract a couple of words that wouldn't be remotely acceptable today, even from a broadly unlikable and unreliable narrator, and The Stepdaughter feels like a bafflingly modern piece of writing. This is a brief but unflinching inspection of interpersonal cruelty by women against women in a world that a man engineered for them that would easily sit along side Eliza Clark's work, or perhaps Jean Hanff Korelitz's.

How infuriating it was to watch J express her unhappiness at her husband's behaviour through escalating revulsion and dislike towards her stepdaughter (and not to mention her au pair, her infant daughter, and her best friend)! Even Je's moment of realisation that it's Arnold who has engineered their shared entrapment is enragingly brief; before long, J's somehow praising him for not being worse, and once again she holds the ills of her situation against other women.

I've seen other reviews (on GoodReads) complaining the novel is fatphobic. I disagree: while the narrator is absolutely fatphobic, and repulsed by the size and precocity of her 13-year-old step-daughter's body, I don't agree that the novel condones her views (arguably the opposite).

3.5 🌟

I was absolutely drawn in by the line "perfect for fans of Shirley Hughes".
Can't say I'm disappointed.
There is an unsettled air to the whole book, as our main character spirals, and obsesses over her step daughter, who has just been abandoned with her.
She's slightly unhinged.
I had no problem imagining that new york apartment, and it's four occupants all driving each other mad.
This is my second book by Blackwood, and it really does make me think I should be reading more of her.
I love that unsettled feeling in a book.