The Children of the Children, by Robin McMillion | Book Guide and Review

Robin McMillion’s new book The Children of the Children is an ambitious cult drama that tackles religious manipulation with extreme realism. Set during the final years of the Cold War, the novel presents a chillingly believable apocalyptic religious community where charismatic leaders wield absolute control, followers surrender their autonomy, and children pay the ultimate price for their parents’ devotion. In some ways, it’s like an immersive fictional guide of how cults work and brainwash people.

The story follows Danny Calvert, a disillusioned college student caught in the aftermath of Vietnam-era protests and personal tragedy. When his friend Joe Del dies in jail after Danny introduced him to student activism, Danny’s guilt and search for meaning make him vulnerable to The Fishermen, an apocalyptic cult led by the increasingly authoritarian Father Joseph. The early chapters establish Danny as painfully relatable—smoking pot to “open his mind to the awesome wonders of life,” owing money for his impounded car, watching revolutionaries discuss bombing the football stadium while knowing deep down “the system was too big for a bunch of young, fumbling revolutionaries to bring down.” When The Fishermen offer him purpose and escape, it feels inevitable. As Danny (later renamed Jacob) penetrates deeper into the community, readers will keep turning the page to find out will he ever get out again.

The book is primarily told through Danny’s eyes, and the prose itself is well-written, clear, and well-edited and formatted for an independent publication. While the tone can be depressing, as this isn’t a light-humoured escape, there are moments of dark humour that provide necessary relief, like Father Joseph’s complaint upon arriving in London: “This drab city with its little beeping cars? Give me San Francisco. Even Texas. And these hoity-toity accents. At least Americans didn’t blather on about the Queen.” It’s a book that clearly takes itself quite seriously, so it is good to see some levity.

The cult psychology portrayal is really well done. While religious fiction has explored faith communities, a fully realized portrait of how intelligent, well-meaning people become trapped in authoritarian groups is rarer than you’d think in my opinion. Cults are a fascinating topic in our current era of misinformation and charismatic leaders, and this book captures the mechanics brilliantly. McMillion’s portrayal of groupthink is thorough and chilling. The gradual erosion of autonomy builds a visceral sense of claustrophobia. Danny’s character development from idealistic revolutionary to cult member is interesting to see develop.

The name change from Danny to Jacob might confuse some readers initially, but it effectively illustrates the cult’s practice of rewriting identity. I particularly appreciated the small touches like the Bible quotes heading each chapter, and how Danny’s evolution shows through in scenes like his confrontations with his sister Annette and his parents. I found myself increasingly invested in this book, particularly its historical grounding. The references to the My Lai massacre, campus protests, and Vietnam draft fears anchor the story in a specific moment.

The book is a good length and easy to read. I finished it in about two and a half hours, though it’s more interesting than thrilling. This isn’t an action-packed escape; it’s a measured examination of how control operates and how families fracture under ideology. I wouldn’t pick this book up for a page-turner. I found it engaging, but it is quite dark and slow at points, though never boring. It kind of gives modern classic vibes. The pacing serves the story’s purpose, allowing readers to feel the gradual erosion of autonomy rather than rushing through it. If you’re looking for breathless suspense, this might not be your book, but if you want something a bit bleak that will stay with you and make you think, it delivers.

The book ends with a very powerful note from the author, “Most of all, free yourself to think, challenge, and feel. Get outside of your bubble, including the bubble that tells you one person—or one group—has all the answers. They don’t have all the answers. They’re just trying to exploit you.” I think everyone in the world needs to hear this message (especially in the USA), so for this reason alone I recommend it. As the title suggests, much of the focus of the book is on Danny’s children, and the question of if they will follow in their father’s footsteps or rebel against the cult.

Overall, I found this to be a thought-provoking, well-executed book from an author with clear personal insight into this world of cults. Anyone interested in cults, religious psychology, or the lasting impact of the Vietnam era will get a lot out of this book. McMillion’s willingness to examine uncomfortable questions about belief, autonomy, and generational trauma from an intimate angle makes this well worth reading.

The Bottom Line: For fans of psychological drama, readers interested in cult dynamics and 1970s counterculture, The Children of the Children offers a sobering read. The perfect book for anyone who enjoys writers such as Margaret Atwood, Emma Cline, and those fascinated by the darker corners of American religious history.

The Children of the Children is a cult drama set during the final years of the Cold War. The novel centres on an apocalyptic religious community called The Fishermen, where charismatic leadership wields absolute control over members, autonomy is gradually surrendered, and the consequences of that surrender pass down to the next generation. For anyone preparing to read it, the book functions as an extended study of how religious manipulation operates from the inside, and approaching it with that framing will deepen the experience.

The narrative follows Danny Calvert, a college student emerging from the aftermath of Vietnam-era protest culture and personal grief. His friend Joe Del has died in jail following events Danny set in motion by introducing him to student activism. This guilt, combined with directionless searching, makes Danny susceptible to recruitment when he encounters The Fishermen and their leader, Father Joseph. Early scenes establish his frame of mind through small but telling details: he smokes pot to "open his mind to the awesome wonders of life," he owes money for an impounded car, and he listens to fellow radicals plan to bomb a football stadium while privately understanding that "the system was too big for a bunch of young, fumbling revolutionaries to bring down." These details matter because they show why a thoughtful person ends up where he does. Readers should treat the opening section as the psychological foundation for everything that follows.

Once inside the cult, Danny is renamed Jacob. This shift can momentarily disorient readers, but the renaming is itself part of the book's subject matter, demonstrating how cults dismantle and rebuild personal identity. Tracking the moments when "Danny" still surfaces beneath "Jacob" is one of the most rewarding ways to read the novel. His relationship to his sister Annette and his parents serves as a barometer for how far the transformation has progressed, and the confrontations between them are key scenes to slow down for.

The historical setting carries real weight throughout. References to the My Lai massacre, ongoing campus protests, and the looming Vietnam draft anchor the story in a precise moment in American life. A basic familiarity with this period, the collapse of 1960s idealism into 1970s disillusionment, helps illuminate why The Fishermen's promise of meaning lands so powerfully. The book belongs to a specific cultural inheritance, and reading it with that context in mind reveals layers that might otherwise pass unnoticed.

Structurally, each chapter opens with a Bible quote. These epigraphs are not decorative; they reflect the worldview being imposed on the characters and often comment ironically on the action that follows. Paying attention to them adds a second layer to the reading. The prose itself is direct rather than ornate, and the tone leans toward the bleak, though dark humour surfaces at intervals. Father Joseph's complaint about London is a useful illustration: "This drab city with its little beeping cars? Give me San Francisco. Even Texas. And these hoity-toity accents. At least Americans didn't blather on about the Queen." These moments are rare but worth noticing, as they reveal something about how the leader sees the world he claims to have transcended.

The central themes worth tracking include groupthink and the mechanics of conformity, the gradual erosion of personal autonomy, the conflict between belief and exploitation, and the inheritance of ideology from parent to child. The title points directly to the last of these. While Danny dominates the first half, the book widens to encompass his children, and the question of whether they will follow him into The Fishermen or break away becomes the engine of the later sections. Reading with this generational lens in mind clarifies the book's overall architecture.

In terms of pacing, the book is around a two-and-a-half-hour read, but it moves with deliberate slowness. This is not a thriller, and approaching it expecting suspense will create friction with what it is actually doing. The slow pace is part of the design, mirroring the gradual way control takes hold of its subjects. The discomfort of that pace is itself instructive, allowing the reader to feel the closing-in rather than observe it from a distance. Readers who lean into this rhythm tend to find the book stays with them long after finishing.

The author closes with a direct address to the reader: "Most of all, free yourself to think, challenge, and feel. Get outside of your bubble, including the bubble that tells you one person—or one group—has all the answers. They don't have all the answers. They're just trying to exploit you." This is the interpretive key to the novel. Everything in the preceding pages can be read as an extended dramatization of what happens when this advice is ignored. Holding this passage in mind while reading, or returning to it afterward, clarifies the book's purpose.

The Children of the Children rewards readers who come to it with patience and curiosity about religious psychology, the long shadow of the Vietnam era, and the ways ideology passes from one generation to the next. It asks uncomfortable questions about belief, identity, and the cost of certainty, and it offers no easy resolutions to any of them. Approaching it as a study rather than a story, and reading slowly enough to absorb its accumulating weight, is the surest way to get the most from it.