Such a Pretty Picture

Reading Such A Pretty Picture was raw and aching, but impossible to look away from. Andrea Leeb writes her childhood with clarity, but not detachment. Every scene is heavy with emotion, especially because she recounts them through the eyes of a little girl trying desperately to be loved, accepted, and safe. It’s a book I had to take breaks from, not because it’s poorly written (quite the opposite), but because it cuts deep. You don’t just read it—you feel it.

From the very first chapter, Andrea sets the tone. The story starts with what should be a simple, loving act: a parent bathing their child. Instead, it becomes a haunting, irreversible moment. “Play with your duck, and let Daddy wash you with his hand,” her father says, while her mother is out getting ready for a dinner date. What follows is an encounter that strips innocence away in seconds. It’s so matter-of-factly told, without dramatics, that I had to stop and catch my breath. The simplicity makes it even more horrifying.

But this memoir isn’t just about one event—it’s about everything that followed. The silence. The shame. The way her mother’s love becomes conditional, erratic, and even cruel. After witnessing the abuse, her mother faints, becomes temporarily blind, and then punishes Andrea emotionally and physically for years. One of the most heartbreaking quotes comes when Andrea is still just a child, trying to make sense of it all: “Maybe I could cure her with my love, the same way I had hurt her with my badness.” That idea—that she’s somehow responsible for everything wrong in her home—is heartbreaking and so relatable for anyone who’s ever been scapegoated as a child.

The memoir is full of painful moments, like when her mother slaps her over a pink shirt on color day at summer camp, or when Andrea tries to smother herself using a shoebox full of cotton balls, toilet paper, and tape. That scene gutted me. The sheer ingenuity of it—how a young girl finds ways to hurt herself using whatever’s on hand—should terrify anyone. But the moment her mother finds her and cradles her, saying, “My poor baby. What have I done to you?” it’s like this impossible contradiction. That was Andrea’s first moment of being held again—of feeling loved. And it came after trying to die.

The writing itself is clean, straightforward, and emotionally honest. There’s a brutal beauty in the way Leeb allows each memory to speak for itself. There’s no need for embellishment—just the truth, laid bare. I especially appreciated the scenes where she’s trying to navigate the outside world: school, friendships, teachers who suspect something but say nothing.

It’s important to note that while this memoir includes sexual abuse, it’s not just about that. It’s about family dysfunction, generational trauma, the failure of adults to protect children, and the way abuse festers in silence. It’s about what it costs a child to keep a secret.

This isn’t a book I’d recommend lightly—it’s emotionally intense and triggering. But it’s also one of the most honest, powerful memoirs I’ve ever read. Andrea Leeb isn’t asking for pity. She’s telling her story to shed light, to speak the truth, and to make someone else feel less alone. And that’s precisely why it matters.