I stopped reading it. Another 50 pages in, I realized that it was only getting worse and that I couldn't stand any of these people. I felt like this was the same contemporary fiction book that I have tried to force myself to read before, only to stop with similar feelings of disgust and then return to reading nonfiction only for a while. I think Tolstoy had it wrong; when it comes to modern fiction, it seems that it is the unhappy families that are all alike. All of the family members in them are selfish jerks.