Gloria functions as the story’s deuteragonist and tragic hero, a round character whose idealism initiates the central conflict. Her character is a complex study in modern altruism, driven by a mixture of genuine compassion, liberal guilt, and personal pride, and she embodies the theme of The Perils of Performative Altruism. Her decision to house a migrant is sparked by a neighbor’s dare that progressives “put their houses where their mouths are” (2), but it’s also fueled by a desire to annoy her ex-husband, a motivation she admits with “relish.” As the family matriarch, she’s the guardian of the Ditmas Park house, a symbol of the American dream, control, and privilege. Her chosen identity is as a progressive, morally upright homeowner, an identity she performs through clothing drives, pizza distributions, and, ultimately, opening her home to a stranger.

The gradual takeover of Gloria’s home forces a devastating confrontation between her ideology and harsh reality. Initially confident in her worldview, she dismisses Nico’s suspicions about Martine as cynical and bigoted. However, as Martine’s “brother” Domingo and his associates move in, Gloria’s control dwindles as she becomes a hostage to the people she intended to help and her hospitality is turned into a form of subjugation. Her murder suggests that the novel may present her as a victim of her own unexamined idealism and hypocrisy, although the narrative generally frustrates simple moral lessons. Gloria’s “rash” decision to disinherit Nico in a misguided attempt to force him into adulthood is a last act of maternal control that she never lives to rescind. Her story explores the dangers of an abstract compassion that ignores the complexities and potential threats of the real world.

Martine is the novel’s primary antagonist and is a round and dynamic character whose arrival sets the plot in motion. She’s a figure of profound ambiguity, embodying both the desperate striving of a migrant seeking a better life and the calculated cunning of a predator. Upon her arrival, she performs the role of the perfect guest: grateful, industrious, and eager to please. Her character relates to the motif of food and hospitality, as she seeks to integrate herself into the family, cooking traditional Honduran meals and obsessively cleaning to make herself indispensable. Nico, however, immediately perceives this as a “performance” designed to allay suspicion. As Nico perceives, her backstory of fleeing an abusive husband and gang violence aligns closely with recent changes in US asylum law, suggesting a sophisticated understanding of how to game the system. Although driven by cynicism, his hunch is proven correct when her “brother” Domingo is revealed as her husband.

Throughout the novel, Martine’s true motivations remain opaque: She is seen only through Nico’s perception of her, apparently shifting personas to suit her audience. With Gloria and Vanessa, she appears as a vulnerable victim; with Nico, she’s a direct and confrontational critic of his passivity; with Domingo, she’s submissive and fearful. This chameleon-like ability allows her to manipulate the Bonaventuras, exploiting their guilt, kindness, and internal divisions. Her statement to Nico, “You no fight, you lose. […] Other people take your nice country, they take your nice soft life. Because you no fight” (78-79), makes her an avatar for the “Great Replacement”-adjacent belief that migrants represent a threat to national sovereignty and identity. The phrase “other people take your nice country” implies that the country belongs rightfully to Nico and not to Martine, who can only steal it. The exchange—like the novel itself—also frames immigration as a zero-sum game in which immigrants can only gain “a better life” if someone else loses the good life they have. By putting these words in the mouth of a migrant character, Shriver makes Martine a mouthpiece for nativist fears.

Nico’s older sister, Palermo, is a static, round character who serves as a pragmatic and cynical foil to the idealism of her mother and younger sister. Her personality is shaped by a car accident that ended her promising gymnastics career and causes chronic pain. This experience has left her with a hardened, no-nonsense view of the world and a deep suspicion of unearned sentiment. She initially supports her mother’s plan to house a migrant, driven by a self-declared sense of principled, left-wing duty that gives her “license to rip political opponents’ throats out” (5). The novel largely satirizes Palermo by revealing the gap between these principles and her personal actions, revealing her to be combative and lacking in compassion. For instance, when asked to contribute financially to the ransom for Martine’s children, she refuses, citing the needs of her husband’s business, although she apparently believes that the ransom is real. As a plain-speaking, often argumentative character, Palermo often provides the novel with an alternative viewpoint, especially to undercut Nico’s perspective.

The youngest Bonaventura sister, Vanessa, is a flat and static character who embodies pure, uncritical kindness. Described as a “soft touch by temperament” (5), she’s a “bright-sider” who thinks the best of everyone and is consistently generous and supportive. She enthusiastically endorses her mother’s plan and becomes Martine’s most ardent defender, viewing her as “the sweetest, most good-hearted person [she’s] ever met” (71). Vanessa’s innocence is both her most appealing and most dangerous quality; Nico observes that her inability to see guile in others makes her a “danger to herself” (23). Within the satirical world of the novel, Vanessa’s uncritical, easy generosity is a sign of privilege and naivety. Her worldview is simple and based on a willful belief in human goodness, brutally challenged by the events of the novel. The violent death of her dog, Kumquat, and the loss of her mother and family home force a painful confrontation with reality, testing the limits of her generosity.

Domingo, also known as El Hacha, or “The Hatchet,” is a flat, static character who embodies the threat that Martine brings into the Bonaventura home. He’s sullen, violent, and entitled, operating with an insolent disregard for the family’s hospitality. The novel presents Domingo as a personification of toxic masculinity: From the moment he arrives, he takes what he wants without asking, establishing his dominance through non-verbal cues and a belligerent presence. When the story reveals that he is Martine’s husband rather than her brother, he exposes the foundational lie of her narrative. The tattoos that cover his hands express his affiliation with a violent world completely alien to the Bonaventuras. He represents an aggressive, uncompromising force that Gloria’s liberal idealism is unprepared to confront. While Martine and Alonso use manipulation and cunning, Domingo represents the brute power that backs these up.

Nico’s father, Carlin, is a successful journalist and public intellectual who serves as the primary ideological foil to his ex-wife, Gloria. He is pragmatic, cynical, and sharply critical of the progressive pieties she embraces, dismissing her performative altruism as a form of “showing off.” Frustrated by Nico’s inertia, he represents an older, more assertive model of masculinity, identifying as a “competent grown-up of a sort they d[o]n’t apparently make anymore” (81). While his relationship with Nico is strained, he acts as a distant and reluctant mentor. When the official systems of law and order fail to protect his family, it’s Carlin who organizes an extralegal response in the form of an armed intervention. Although his rescue mission arrives too late to save Gloria, his decisive action and his willingness to engage with the world’s harsh realities are in contrast to Nico’s initial stagnation and ultimately help catalyze his son’s decision to build his own life.