My father was a gardener. Now he is a garden. A man sits by his father's bedside and watches him die. Watches as his past begins to crack, leaving him buried in all its afternoons. The quietly collapsing afternoons of childhood. Because the end of our fathers is the end of a world. From the winner of the International Booker Prize, comes a novel about a father and a son, about the last month of a man's life, and the stories that make up a life.