Synopsis

After almost three decades of silence (and at least thirty pounds of unresolved resentment), Mona, 42, baker, translator, and part-time collector of guilt—finally decides to do something about her estranged sisters. Haunted by the murder of Canadian journalist Zahra Kazemi, she hatches a wild plan: start an online book club reading banned books in translation. What could possibly go wrong? Plenty.

Soha, 38, the youngest and allegedly the “sensible one,” joins cautiously, probably with a fire extinguisher nearby. Fleur, 40, the outspoken middle sister with a pistachio addiction and a mistrust of anything translated, agrees—though she insists on doing it with one eyebrow permanently raised. Both sisters carry private burdens: one locked in a marriage with a possessive husband whose streak of violence shadows her daily life, the other tied to a partner whose quiet cheating plays out as if she hasn’t noticed—though she has, and the silence cuts deeper than words.

Soon the three of them are fighting over deleted lines, debating whether morphing the veil into a burqa counts as a conspiracy theory or a metaphorical missile aimed at the regime’s enemies, and whether wearing a OVO T-shirt could somehow be a national security risk. They even argue over whether the acronym “RBB” really stands for Rebel Book Babes, Read Between Blunders, or Really Bad Banter.

Adding to the chaos, they can’t even meet on video—extra charges make it impossible. So, their revolutionary book club is forced to run on audio only, like a secret pirate radio station nobody asked for. After all, between overdue bills, feeding stray cats, and pistachios priced like gold bars, the three sisters are broke in their own unique ways.

Enter Ismaris, the brooding librarian with a tragic past, a love for hidden meanings, and—small detail—a fiancée. Add Sybelle, Mona’s fiercely loyal, zero-nonsense best friend, who thinks the whole Book project should be recycled (preferably in flames). She doesn’t buy Ismaris’s theory that censored books can whisper the truth—or the way he stares at Mona like he’s misplaced his library card in her eyes.

Between censored passages, fierce debates, and the reality of fractured marriages and old wounds, this story serves up sisterhood on the mend—laced with sharp humour, quiet heartbreak, and just enough pistachios to crack through a dictatorship.

P.S. The title is the worst part of this story. Whoever reads this--consider yourself deputized. Funny, ridiculous, or genius: all title suggestions welcome.

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