Yesteryear is not a novel; it’s a parable about a tradwife getting her comeuppance for the sin of her pride. It’s a screed about a foolish woman making the mistake of buying into a system that smart and rational women like Caro Claire Burke know no smart and rational woman could possibly buy into. Yesteryear has made up its mind about how its characters ought to be, and it does nothing to disconfirm its author’s lamentably insular worldview, nor that of her similarly far-left, terminally online readership.