If you were captivated by Patricia Cowan's split at the moment she might marry Mark—becoming Trish in a troubled marriage in one world and Pat building a life with Bee in another—then you'll love how Life After Life follows Ursula Todd through life after life, each rewind nudging history. As Patricia's two paths ripple into different global outcomes (from nuclear scares to moonward optimism), Ursula's repeated chances alter everything from family fortunes to the course of the Blitz. The same intimate, domestic vantage point becomes a lens on sweeping historical what-ifs.

If you loved how My Real Children stays close to Patricia—her kitchens, nurseries, and late-life care home—while her two lives (with Mark or with Bee) unfold in alternating chapters, The Versions of Us gives you that same close-up tenderness. It traces three possible versions of a couple’s relationship from a single chance encounter, dwelling on the quiet choices about love, work, and parenting that—just as with Pat/Trish—reshape entire lifetimes without leaving the living room.

If Patricia’s reflective voice—sorting two conflicting memories in the care home, measuring love for Bee against duty to Mark and the children—hooked you, Never Let Me Go offers that same soft-spoken intensity. Kathy H. looks back on her friendships with Ruth and Tommy and the ordinary rituals of school and work, and, as with Pat’s gently told but devastating realizations, the emotional weight creeps up on you until the truth about their lives breaks your heart.

If what moved you in My Real Children was Patricia’s ongoing search for who she is in two incompatible realities—Pat with Bee in Florence, Trish navigating motherhood under Mark’s shadow—Orlando turns the dial toward the lyrical and strange. Orlando lives for centuries and changes gender, shedding roles and expectations the way Patricia sheds surnames and futures, all in pursuit of a self that feels true beneath history’s demands.

If Patricia’s single decision point—yes or no to Mark—fascinated you for how it births two different worlds (one scarred by nuclear catastrophe, the other reaching outward toward the moon) then The Lathe of Heaven is a sharp, philosophical echo. George Orr’s dreams literally rewrite reality, and the ethical tangles feel akin to Patricia weighing love, duty, and the unforeseen costs of a better world. It’s thoughtful, humane, and quietly world-shifting.