By the time we are adults, most of us have a pretty solid grasp on our identities. We're defined by our tastes: what we indulge in, what we deem worthy of attention, what we utterly hate and what we find magnificent. For example, up until quite recently, I thought I knew exactly what kind of cultural consumer I was. When it comes to television, I have favored lower than lowbrow. Think less Real Housewives and more Wives with Knives on the Investigation Channel. And yet, in terms of books, nothing short of impenetrable esotericism would do. I have been known to read uplifting gems like Night or Ulysses while sunbathing, and in darker moments have devoured the entire melancholy oeuvres of tortured pessimists -- Davids Markson and Foster Wallace come to mind -- in single binges. In short: I am the worst kind of bona fide literary snob. (If this is coming across as pure self-aggrandizement, may I remind you that I watch Toddlers & Tiaras. On the regular.)

Recently I was assigned to read the memoir Glitter and Glue by the New York Times bestselling memoirist Kelly Corrigan. I skeptically viewed the plot synopsis -- a young American travels abroad to find adventure and finds herself yearning for her mother -- and wondered if I was about to read the book version of my friends' long-winded chain emails about "discovering" themselves, often by drunkenly making out with Florentine teenagers during their sophomore semesters abroad.

But oh wow, was I wrong. Capital-W, red-faced and ashamed, bow-down-and-cry-out-"We’re not worthy!"-Wayne’s-World-style wrong.

The story is the opposite of the cliched narrative that I had imagined. When Corrigan graduated from college, she found herself desperately wanting to broaden her horizons, so she convinced her parents to let her travel around South Asia and Australia with her friend. Kelly’s father, her constant cheerleader, is thrilled for her, while her mother, an unsentimental logician, quietly disapproves. Eventually, Corrigan runs out of money in Australia, and is forced to take an unglamorous job as a nanny to the two Tanner children, Milly and Martin, ages eight and five, who have just lost their mother to cancer. Over the course of the five months she lives with the Tanners, Kelly becomes emotionally attached to this family, so vulnerable in their mourning. She winces and exalts in the moments she finds herself slipping into the warm caretaker space previously unoccupied. She also simultaneously finds herself yearning much more for her mother than she ever thought she would, and wonders if beneath their strained relationship lies a deep, unbreakable love .

The narrative brings you right up to the present day, and weaves the story of Corrigan’s life with the Tanners into a thoughtful meditation on familial bonds, emotional growth, and life itself. To risk my utter embarrassment -- in case my fondness for the horrors of TLC didn't do the trick -- let’s not dwell on the moments this book made me cry on subway platforms in full view of throngs of commuters. Instead, let’s focus on the kindhearted genius that is Corrigan’s writing.