The series, adapted from Andrea Mara’s 2021 novel, takes that single nightmare premise and unspools it slowly, carefully, and with just enough realism to feel like it could happen to anyone with a smartphone and a trusting nature. The police don’t take her seriously. Her husband starts questioning her memory. And the neighbors? They just want the whole thing to go away before it ruins the next barbecue.
What I loved most is how the show refuses to go big too soon. There’s no immediate conspiracy montage or secret government agency. It’s just one woman versus the unbearable silence of not knowing where her child is. That slow-burn dread is intoxicating and a reminder that the scariest stories are the ones that could happen in daylight.
Visually, it’s gorgeous in that Peacock Prestige way - blue-gray tones, gleaming kitchens, overhead drone shots of neatly symmetrical cul-de-sacs. Everything looks perfect, which makes the cracks stand out more. The directing team leans into paranoia beautifully; even the most banal shots of playgrounds or driveways carry a faint menace.
Of course, no streaming thriller is perfect. There’s the usual over-reliance on stylish edits: reflections in mirrors, slow zooms through rain-spattered windows, but it earns most of its mood honestly. Where All Her Fault really excels is in its emotional logic. Every motherly instinct Marissa acts on makes sense. Every bad decision comes from panic, not plot convenience. It’s one of those shows that makes you shout at the screen, but you’d probably do the same thing in her place.
Now, let’s zoom out. Because this isn’t just a well-made thriller; it’s a fascinating cultural mirror.
We are, collectively, obsessed with the idea of safety that can vanish in a blink. From Gone Girl to The Missing to Baby Reindeer, the modern mystery often starts at home, the one place we used to think we controlled. All Her Fault taps into that exact fear: what if your normal day, your normal text messages, your normal trust in another parent, becomes the crack that swallows you whole?
And then there’s the gender layer. Female-led thrillers used to hinge on hysteria, the “is she crazy or is she right?” trope. Here, Snook gets to play both and neither. The show lets her be rational, wrong, strong, and broken in the same breath. It’s messy and real, and it’s probably the best work she’s done since Shiv Roy shredded her last NDA.
If there’s a weak link, it’s pacing around the midpoint. The mystery drags for a beat too long, teasing answers without delivering them. But when the revelations come, they land. The writing resists the easy “it was all a dream” or “the husband did it” traps, giving us a resolution that’s more human than twisty.
And honestly, it’s refreshing to see a show that understands suspense isn’t just about plot, it’s about empathy. We don’t just want to know what happened to the kid. We want to know how a person rebuilds after the world decides they’re unreliable.
If this sounds heavy, it is. But it’s also incredibly watchable. The dialogue is tight, the cinematography slick, and the performances layered enough that you forgive the occasional cliché. It’s prestige comfort food for people who like their comfort food served with a shot of dread.
When I finished the first episode, I immediately wanted to text every parent friend I have. Not because I thought their kid would vanish, but because the show captures something raw about parenthood, the constant low-grade anxiety that everything can change while you’re scrolling through recipes.
I started watching out of curiosity. I ended up watching with my heart in my throat. And if that’s not the mark of a good thriller, I don’t know what is.