In the first volume of Carol Tyler's planned trilogy of graphic memoirs, she dug into the eruptive, violent memories of her father's WWII experiences while simultaneously dealing with a husband who decided to go find himself and leave her with a daughter to raise. The second volume is no less rich and overwhelming. While the language Tyler uses has a winningly self-deprecating spareness to it, her art is a lavishly prepared kaleidoscope of watercolours and finely etched drawings, all composed to look like a family photo album.