Warmhearted, insightful, funny and poignant, bestselling author Maddie Dawson takes the unfathomable ways of love and family, and celebrates [the joys of] the ordinary craziness of being human.

"You know what people really need? Somebody who will listen hard and then find a way to tell them, 'It's not all your fault. It's going to work out fine. Don't give up.'" So advice columnist 'Dear Lily' Brown deeply believes.

But Lily could write a letter to herself, asking what to do about an ex-husband who still wants her dating advice, how to redecorate the family home she's kept exactly the same since her parents died tragically young, and how to move on with her strangely becalmed life...And oh, yes, what to do when your wild-child estranged sister storms back into town, blowing your nicely arranged life into disarray.

"Quite wonderful. . . . Like Anne Tyler, Shelton seems to possess a nearly boundless capacity for empathy. She has the ability to make us love her characters for their faults, not in spite of them." -Connecticut Post

"As her protagonist tries to learn that she cannot and does not have to control everyone around her and tries to enjoy the "fun" of a dysfunctional family life, Dawson delves into family relationships with humor and empathy, making this a pleasurable read." -Booklist

"Shelton's greatest talent is a gift for juxtaposing comedy and tragedy to the pulsing beat of the modern-day mating dance." -BookPage

**This book was originally published under the pen name, Sandi Kahn Shelton ***
About the Author: I grew up in the South, born into a family of outrageous storytellers-the kind of storytellers who would sit on the dock by the lake in the evening and claim that everything they say is THE absolute truth, like, stack-of-Bibles true. The more outlandish the story, the more it likely it was to be true. Or so they said. You want examples? There was the story of my great great aunt who shot her husband dead, thinking he was a burglar; the alligator that almost ate Uncle Jake while he was waterskiing; the gay cousin who took his aunt to the prom, disguised in a bouffant French wig. (The aunt, not the cousin.) And then there was my mama, a blond-haired siren who, when I was seven, drove a married man so insane that he actually stole an Air Force plane one day and buzzed our house. (I think there might have been a court-martial ending to that story.) And in between all these stories of crazy, over-the-top events, there was the hum of just daily, routine crazy: shotgun weddings, drunken funerals, stories of peoples affairs and love lives, their job losses, the things that made them laugh, the way theyd drink Jack Daniels and get drunk and foretell the future. There were ghosts and miracles and dead people coming back to life. You know, everyday stuff. How could I turn into anything else but a writer? My various careers as a substitute English teacher, department store clerk, medical records typist, waitress, cat-sitter, wedding invitation company receptionist, nanny, daycare worker, electrocardiogram technician, and Taco Bell taco-maker were only bearable if I could think up stories as I worked. In fact, the best job I ever had was a part-time gig typing up case notes for a psychiatrist. Everything the man dictated bloomed as a possible novel in my head. Today I live in Connecticut, and spend part of every day on my screened-in back porch with my trusty laptop, writing and writing and writing, looking out at the willow tree and the rosebush and the rhododendron that has a nice nest of cardinals, who I imagine to be yelling at me to get back to work whenever I wait too long to write the next sentence. Please visit Maddiedawson.com to discover more!