Introducing Everybody Knows But Me follows comedian Holly Brown, who learned at 17, while her father was dying of cancer, that he had secretly fathered twin sons her entire family had known about. Holly recounts her childhood around her father Mark, who worked behind the scenes on sitcoms and whose charm and performances made him seem larger than life.
She explores how family secrets are kept, why sitcoms became her way of making sense of her life, and what questions remain after his death. Listeners will hear family stories about their father, the struggles behind his public image, and the personal reckoning that opens the series.
In this episode Holly Brown
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Hey, it's Sydney. Today we're sharing the first episode of another podcast I've been obsessed with. It's called "Everybody Knows But Me," and it was named one of Apple Podcasts' best shows of 2026 so far. "Everybody Knows But Me" is hosted by comedian Holly Brown. At 17, while her father was dying of cancer, he confessed that he had secretly fathered twins. Twins that everybody else in Holly's family already knew about: her aunts, her uncles, and all of her cousins. Now in her 30s, Holly sets out to understand how her entire family kept a secret that big. She's trying to figure out if she's ready to meet her now 20-year-old brothers.
And along the way, she's telling some long-held family secrets of her own. It's funny, heartbreaking, full of '90s sitcom nostalgia, and proof that sometimes the stories that sound the most unbelievable are the ones that actually happened. Here's Season 1, Episode 1 of "Everybody Knows But Me." Did you ever feel like your life was a TV show? If millions of people were tuning in every Friday night to see what kind of crazy antics you and your family and friends were getting into, do you think they'd be watching a sitcom or a drama?
I know what you're probably thinking right now. You're probably saying to yourself, "Uh, Holly, life's not that simple." Sometimes it's hysterically funny, and sometimes it's fucking horrifying. That's me, by the way. I'm Holly. Holly Brown. Nice to meet you. And trust me when I say, "I agree with you." But I hope you won't think it's cliché when I also say that growing up, I genuinely believed my life had to be scripted. I desperately wanted it to be a sitcom so badly.
I mean, I was the daughter of a man who literally helped build sitcom worlds for a living. Growing up in Los Angeles's San Fernando Valley in the '90s, show business was part of our physical reality, something you could come face to face with every day. Especially since my dad, Mark, worked behind the scenes on the kind of shows that made families look perfect, or at least perfectly dysfunctional.
Are you out of your mind? A gun just went off in here!
Niles bought a Stardust pistol.
And there's no need to get snippy. Accidents happen, you know.
Oh, I'm sorry. Was I snippy? I didn't realize it was too much to ask that there not be gunplay in my living room!
I always assumed that's where my intense love of sitcoms came from. Those tidy, 30-minute universes full of love, lessons, and the kind of laughter that only exists because a producer is holding up a sign telling a live studio audience how to react.
What do you think of me now?
Sitcoms didn't just play in the background of my childhood, though. They consumed it. My dad worked his way up through Hollywood from being a best boy and, no, that's not a tiny little groomsman in a wedding. Then he paid his dues in various other roles behind the camera, eventually establishing himself as the lead man in the art department. And as a Hollywood-obsessed kid, I loved being on set with him and going to tapings. Roaming the Paramount backlot felt like a dream, filled with recognizable sets and celebrities just existing like normal.
I thought it was so cool that my dad played basketball with George Clooney and chatted with Michael Keaton like it was nothing. But more importantly, he got me original art from the Rugrats. The Rugrats! And Salem Sabrehagen's paw-print signature from "Sabrina the Teenage Witch."
Salem, is this a desperate cry for help?
No, this is. Help! I'm running out of air! Zap it off and give me mouth to mouth!
I mean, these kinds of things made me feel pretty special. Different from other kids. In my house, our furniture was mostly props from Fraser sets, a pair of bar stools, a wooden hutch, our dining room table. I'd sip my chocolate milk from the same Caffè Nervosa cup as Fraser craned and think, "See, my life is a TV show." But as I got older, I started to wonder if maybe it wasn't that I loved sitcoms because my dad helped create them. Maybe I loved them because I needed to believe my life could become one.
That this world I was living in, the one filled with intense sickness and screaming matches, where pain pills and silent prayers for someone to step in and save us were all conveniently off camera. It all felt so unbelievably cruel and absurd that it had to be cooked up in a writer's room. Because if it were scripted, maybe it could be rewritten. Maybe it could still have a happy ending.
When you stripped away the props that filled our house, the autograph book signed by my TGIF heroes, the golf cart rides around the studio lot as a kid, you'd actually see that my life was anything but wholesome family fun. In reality, the worst things that could happen always did. But just like the spotless, sitcom-perfect sets my dad helped build, everything looked fine from the outside, and people saw what we wanted them to see.
Or maybe what they wanted to see. Everybody wants to believe in a happy family, right? After all, ours pretty much looked the part with all the tried-and-true stereotypes. The kind mom, the older sister on the honor roll, the rebellious middle child, the zany little brother, and the perfect sitcom dad. Tim the Toolman Taylor.
Ugh!
Danny Tanner.
Meow.
Al Bundy.
Do I come to the hag shop bother you when you're working?
Carl Winslow.
Almost lost it there.
My old man could steal the show with the best of them. He looked like a sitcom dad too. Dark hair and broad shoulders, a mischievous grin he'd flash right before doing something ridiculous. His looks and likability always reminded me of John Ritter growing up, if John had been just, like, a lot more rough around the edges.
Two glasses of white wine, please.
I'll have the same.
I think everyone sort of idolized your dad because he had such a strong personality. He could take over any room he walked into, take over any party we were at. He always wanted to perform. He always wanted to entertain people. And he did for years. He just was somebody that I think a lot of people looked up to.
That's my aunt KJ, one of my dad's four siblings, who knew full well that in a family so big, you had to have something special to stand out. And that didn't end once he grew up and left home to make it on his own. No matter what my dad did, his charm and imagination knocked you off your feet. Take movie night. In our house, movie night wasn't just throwing on a VHS. It was an event. Before every movie, we were served by our butler, Jeeves, who bore a striking resemblance to my dad in a ponytail, with a British accent and a napkin draped over his arm.
Dad, like, primed us to believe in everything, though. Like, we just lived in a kind of magical childhood. I don't remember what he did. I just remember the towel and his British accent and that he had three kids. Jeeves had three kids in England named Ysac, Leehall, and Sunkar. So just pig Latin versions of our names, I guess.
I forgot about that.
And he would tell us all about his kids in England who were shockingly similar to us in so many ways, but British.
My older sister Casey, who you just heard, has some conflicting memories about exactly which version of him had the ponytail. Because after all, he did have multiple characters. There was also Bob the Bowler, a fast-talking pro bowler from New York, New Jersey. Eh, the region is fuzzy, but our local bowling alley was his stage.
You know, I think you think about it when you're an adult, and maybe people will be like, "What the heck, guys? Have you really thought you had a butler that flew in from England?" But, like, you know, we'd be we would drive up to see our grandma and grandpa. They lived, like, three hours north of us in California. And you drive past the ocean along most of the way, and our dad would be driving and, like, I mean, this is a man was a trained actor. The most convincing would be like, "Guys, guys, did you see that? Did you see that?" And you'd be like, "No, what?" It's like, "I saw a mermaid tale out there. I can't believe you all missed it.
Again!" But, you know, you're living in a world where, like, mermaids are real, fairies are real.
Fairies and Sprites.
Sprites and Snickers.
Music was another part of his magic. My dad was music in every sense of the word.
We would sit as a family and just wait for him to come home so he could play whatever new song he'd written.
Really?
About our family. I mean, I know you've heard all the Christmas songs he wrote and all the Thanksgiving songs and all the wedding songs, but he always wrote very personal songs. I wish that we had a recording of our wedding song. And I had asked him way too late to please record it, but he was so sick he couldn't.
Yeah.
He was like, "I can't. I can't do it. I can't do it justice." But I it was beautiful. It was a beautiful song.
He'd play Beatles songs so well on his guitar that I thought he must have been in the band himself. He could listen to a song on the radio and, without a single lesson, play the melody on a piano every time. He wrote songs for his siblings and nieces' weddings and recorded an entire album in our garage that I swear to you holds up. Tell me this country song doesn't slap. I dare you.
Gather 'round my family and friends so dear, and I'll sing you all a story if you'll lend me your ear. About a midnight ride back some 50 years, and you could say my grandpa was Paul Revere.
Wherever we went, my dad carried an energy that pulled people in. He talked to every cashier, asking them about their day as though it were the most interesting conversation he'd ever had. He'd tell stories about jumping onto moving trains, driving his motorcycle off a bridge, and doing so many drugs that I'd say, "Dad, oh my God!" And you believed him. Not because the story sounded real. I'm honestly not sure what was and what wasn't, but because he did.
Everybody put my dad on a pedestal. Everybody.
He was just everybody's friend, everybody's hero.
I mean, how could they not see him that way? He was the epitome of main character energy. He was the funniest man I've ever known, always committed to making someone laugh. And for the better part of the last decade, I have been too. Time out. You know my name, but you don't really know me. I'm a stand-up comedian who shares a little too much of herself on stage.
If you're asking yourselves much like I did, well, holy Urban Outfitters, they don't have public restrooms. Did you shit your pants? Well, no, idiots. I shit their pants.
But there are some things I've never been able to talk about openly. Talking about them openly means I lose control of the narrative, which honestly scares the shit out of me. Because I spent most of my life with zero control over what was happening to me. And really, it means I'm going to finally have to confront a bombshell that my dad dropped on me almost 15 years ago. One I've been actively avoiding ever since. A secret that forced me to reckon with what family secrets do to you and how they quietly rearrange everything you thought you knew.
OK, so this is the part in the sitcom where the theme song kicks in. I pull up in my cool-ass convertible in front of a totally nondescript suburban house. I walk up to the door, my key hits the lock, and as it turns, the title slams onto the screen. Everybody knows but me. From Next Chapter Podcasts and Companion Arts, this is episode one, the one with my dad's confession.
It's just so interesting how family dynamics, like, you can see it coming from a mile away, and when it's happening, you just can't. You're blind to it.
Well, and you're living it.
Yeah.
So it's hard to separate yourself. But I have seen that since the time you were a little girl. You and your dad are more alike than Casey and Carson. You know, you're just so much alike. And so I knew there was always going to be some conflict.
Isn't that funny? You could be twins with somebody, and you're like, "Why do I hate you?" No. Yeah, my dad and I are too much alike sometimes. I've always felt the most similar to my dad. And as magical as he was, I was never quite sure that being so much like him was a good thing. That was something I really struggled with because my dad was fun, charming, and deeply, deeply flawed. But the myth of Mark Brown wasn't.
I think he definitely wanted to be everybody's best friend, and he always wanted to please everybody, and especially Mom and Dad. Mom idolized him.
Really?
Yes. I mean, parents aren't supposed to have favorites. Mark was Mom's favorite.
You could tell.
No doubt.
I think it's a safe assumption to make that my dad was literally everybody's favorite.
I just remember he would come out and go, "Rabbit and Babbit and Babbit cakes," and just I just loved him so much.
I didn't know he came up with baby cakes.
Yeah, he came up with baby cakes. Oh, yeah, for sure.
Aw.
And the Rabbit and Babbit and Babbit cakes.
What is that?
He would just always say that to me. He'd go, "Rabbit and Babbit and Babbit cakes." And then he would always give me 100 kisses on my face.
Aw, that sounds so him.
50 on each cheek every time.
Ugh.
And I'd be like, "No, no," and I'd just, you know, "No, no, don't." And I loved every bit of it.
Yeah, that just feels like anything he could do to attack you with affection.
Yes, of course.
Is something he would do.
Yeah.
That's my aunt Cheryl, the youngest of my dad's siblings. My grandpa was in the Air Force, which meant the family moved around a lot. In the mid-1960s, when my dad was about 8 years old, they landed in a small town off of California's central coast called Lompoc, best known for its flower fields, a military base, and a very large prison. And with a family of seven, I can only imagine how chaotic things were. There was my granddad, Cecil, but we called him Charlie Brown.
Joyce, my grandma, or as we called her, Mamu. My aunt Cecilia, the oldest. Two years later came my dad. Three years after that, my aunt KJ, then my uncle Matt, and finally Aunt Cheryl, or as you heard earlier, Baby Cakes. For most people, it would be pretty hard to stand out in a family that big. But somehow, my dad made it sound pretty easy.
The first time I realized what a performer he was, I was probably in elementary school. I might have been in junior high. And Cabrillo High School, which is where your dad and your aunt Cecilia, they were in high school together. And I think your dad might have been a freshman in high school, and they were putting on the play Our Town.
OK.
And he didn't get a part in the play. And I think your aunt Cecilia did.
What?
She was in the play, but your dad did not. But he was a freshman, and they had, you know, seniors trying out, so they had to give him to the seniors. But before the play started and during intermission and stuff, they asked your dad to sing, to play, you know, play the guitar and sing. And we were sitting there waiting for the play to start, and your dad walked down the aisle of the theater singing.
He was walking and singing at the same time?
Yeah, walking and singing and playing his guitar. And I thought, "He's so great."
Aw.
And, you know, he had played the guitar at home. I don't think at that time in his life he had written his own songs yet, maybe, and I didn't realize it. But that was the first time I'd heard him in public singing, and I thought, "He's so good. He's that's my brother."
And how brave.
I'm so proud. I was more proud of him than I was of the play. I mean, you know, Cecilia was in the play, and that was fine, whatever. She probably had a lead role. I don't know.
From that point on, my dad had dreams that were too big to stay inside him and way too big to stay in a small town like Lompoc. After attending college in Texas, he moved to the place where serious theater people go to make it big: New York City. He auditioned for plays, was so broke he slept under the bar at his job. And let's be honest, I know he did a lot of partying. And out of all of his children, why did I have to inherit the performance bug in this economy?
I couldn't have loved math or plants. I had to love art and attention. A few years after I started doing stand-up, around 2018, I was digging through some boxes in the garage when I found a very old journal. It was immediately clear that it was my dad's because the first page was a very long list of women's names. Some I recognized from his stories, some I didn't recognize at all, and some that were just written out as Myra Huttab or Lucy's friend.
Yeah, you're hearing that right. The first page of my dad's journal was his incredibly long sex list. I told you. Everybody loved Mark Brown. The last number on his list was left blank, and I like to think that's when he met my mommy, but more on that later. Most of the rest of this journal was illegible. Bits of songs, fragments of plays. His handwriting was historically terrible, but there was one passage I could read, and it said, "I don't like bartending.
I have to act." The problem is, New York offers no money to actors. You have to have money in New York. Money is the key to comfort here, but I'll be back. Jesus, I am 25. I need to start making money at my trade. Maybe things will come from 26. I was 25 when I found that journal, reading words my dad had written when he was the exact same age as me. I could feel him on those pages.
Honestly, I felt like I could have written them myself. Not much has changed about acting or performing since then. You still need money. Neither of us had it. But God, did he love the craft. And there it is again, a reminder I am so much like my dad.
I remember Dad told me a story about an audition he went on for a soap opera. And our dad did a lot of Shakespeare, as we mentioned, and was a huge snob, just to say, very pretentious, like, loved to talk about how smart he was. And he does this soap opera, and he gets a callback, and he decides during the callback that he can't be on a soap opera because it's beneath him.
Oh, my God.
As an actor.
Can you imagine?
He does Shakespeare. And apparently, according to Dad, the person who got the role in the soap opera, Kelsey Grammer.
No way.
Who our dad later worked for.
I got to talk to Kelsey. I'm not kidding. I got to figure out a way to talk to Kelsey Grammer.
Yeah, but apparently.
That would be crazy if I can confirm that.
Yeah, supposedly Kelsey got that role that my dad went out for.
Are they the same age? I mean, I'm assuming they're.
They're pretty close in age, yeah.
Wow. From everything I've known and from everybody I've ever talked to, it's clear he had it. Being a performer was the most important thing to him, second only to being a dad, allegedly. Lucky for me, in the mid-1980s, he headed back west and met my mom before any star-making role ever came. And when you move to Hollywood, dreaming of being in front of the camera, the next best thing is getting as close as possible.
So he moved behind the scenes, and it couldn't have happened at a better time, the golden age of sitcoms.
What's up? What's up? Whoa. Seven condoms a day, all right.
How rude.
There are plenty of other hot-looking chicks who are dying to go with me.
A lot of sick people out there, man.
Jeffrey, go fetch my tools. You mean your knife and fork?
But first, the kids who ruined his dreams. I mean, the kids who gave his life new meaning. You've already met my sister. She's a year and a half older than me and arrived the same year as the fresh prince of Bel-Air. Whether she liked it or not, she was going to be my greatest friend. I wasn't even one yet when my dad landed a job on a brand-new sitcom in 1993 that would basically become the wallpaper of my childhood: Frasier. You can probably tell how enmeshed our lives were with Frasier by the Niles Crane tribute tattoo I have or the Creative Arts Emmy he won as part of the show's crew, which now hangs above my desk.
But the real impact was less trophy, more childhood. My sister and I wrote letters to Santa on the back of Frasier scripts. We went to Halloween parties at Kelsey Grammer's house, where my dad designed Kelsey's annual haunted houses like they were his passion projects. We attended every single Frasier softball team game. Time out. Did you know every sitcom had a softball team? And I mean every show. Seinfeld, Friends, Two of a Kind.
Remember that one? We spent hours watching my dad win over yet another crowd from the bleachers. I even met Malcolm in the middle himself in the middle of a game.
All I'm asking is for the courtesy of not being treated like an idiot.
Seasons 1 through 6 of my life had a loyal audience, consistent storylines, and familiar characters. And then in 1997, the same year South Park burst onto the airwaves, we got a surprise ratings boost no one saw coming: a baby boy, my little brother Carson.
It was kind of cool to, like, be in that guy's orbit when you're like, like, oh, I guess am I, you know, that's my dad, you know? It just felt like when he entered the room, the room was, like, the lights turned on. You know what I mean?
That's beautiful.
I don't know. It just felt like he was, like, the when people say the life of the party, he was the life of the party, always. So I don't know. It just I'd say probably some of the earliest memories I have would be, like, going trout fishing in Bocay Canyon with him. That was fun. I remember him teaching me how to play catch, but I just wouldn't hold the glove right. I was scared. And I remember him getting really mad at me because I wouldn't do it. I just I also I remember, like, doing stuff in the garage. I've always liked to I was always interested in what he was making, and he was not a very good craftsman.
What? That bong he made wasn't expert-level craftsmanship?
He had all the heart. He didn't have the connection to the brain.
One of the most unique experiences my brother had was when my dad actually gave him a cameo in an episode of Frasier. My little 6-year-old brother, how many people can say that? He had a way of making us all feel individually loved, like you were his favorite co-star. But depending on the era, you were meeting a very different version of that larger-than-life leading man.
I do think a lot of my memories are either tied to home videos or photos. So pre-cancer, I don't remember much, really. I don't really feel like I ever had a memory with, like, a sound-bodied father.
Really?
Yeah, I don't ever remember Dad with, like to me, Dad's always been frail.
Yeah.
Very, very one or two years where I can remember things like trout fishing and, like, baseball. But other than that, no.
That's so crazy because I just remember when I was little thinking Dad was, like, the strongest man in the world. You know, it's just it's such a different experience because he would, like, pick us each up on each arm, and he'd, like, show his big muscles and get that weight machine in the garage and everything. And so I just remember thinking, like, well, we have the strongest dad, period.
He must be the strongest dad in the universe.
He's the strongest, and he told us, and so it's true.
And he can pick up a child. He's the strongest dad.
Yeah, he can pick up a 40-pound kid. But yeah, so I just that was my little kid memory of Dad. And then it's like I think I think there is photograph you can see in photographs, like, when the drinking got really out of hand because.
He got pretty heavy.
Yeah, he was pretty puffy.
Oh, my God.
Pretty puffy in a lot of pictures.
And very red.
Memories are weird like that, and I'm trying to fill in the gaps of my own. Even my older sister, who remembers everything, doesn't remember one of the most important moments of our lives, the moment our dad sat us down when we thought we were learning one thing and we found out something else that changed everything entirely. I have more questions for him and, ultimately, the rest of my family. Why did he try to shield us from the truth? Was he trying to protect himself or us?
Is there more I still don't know? Who in my family can I trust? And why did everybody know but me? So get ready because we're going to explore the answers to these questions and a lot more. And occasionally, my extremely fucked-up life will act like the sitcom I always wished it could be.
Everybody Knows But Me is recorded in front of a live studio audience.
Elisa, who are you going to the prom with?
Oh, it's so hot out. I can barely move.
Me too, honey. Oh, I haven't gotten off the couch in days.
15 different prescriptions at once probably didn't help either, Mom. Well, sounds like Carson's on the roof again. At least this time he's trying to fix the AC unit. Correction. He was on the roof.
Does anyone know what a Phillips head screwdriver looks like? Also, does anyone know a repair guy who isn't 12?
Good news, sis. It's actually somehow colder outside than it is in here. We can't live like this. I thought Dad said he was going to get the air conditioning replaced weeks ago. Four weeks, six days, nine hours and 14 minutes, actually. But who's counting? Where is Dad anyway? Didn't he want to tell us something?
Oh, yeah. He, um, dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to bask in the exciting glow of your father's big enough.
I think the heat got to her. Yeah, Casey. The heat.
Is it just the cancer in me, or is it cold as hell in here?
Hot, Dad. Hell is hot, which is why I'm pretty sure we're living in it. Technically, in Dante's inferno, the deepest circle of hell is a frozen wasteland. OK, Dad, out with it. Why the family meeting? We getting central air or what?
Well, I, um, I've actually got something to tell you.
Did the doctor say something? This isn't the big bad news, is it?
Oh, it's big news all right.
So what is it, Dad? Is Frasier coming back? Do you have your old job again? Are we trading top ramen for tossed salad and scrambled eggs?
Come on. You know once TV shows end, they don't ever come back. I, uh, I don't know how to say this, but I well, I had a relationship with someone who wasn't your mother. And you have twin brothers. They're five years old.
So not dying then.
Oh, I'm dying all right. Dying of thirst? What does a guy have to do to get a beer around here?
Dad, you can't have a beer. You have cancer.
Our show is proudly brought to you by Upside Down Backwards Visors and the memory of smoking indoors. Remember when we used to be able to smoke inside? Life seemed a lot simpler back then, didn't it? And if you weren't around for it, well, you really missed out. Anyways, thanks again for tuning in to Everybody Knows But Me.
Gather 'round my family and friends so dear, and I'll sing you all a story if you'll lend me your ear about a midnight ride back some 50 years, and you can say my grandpappy was Paul Revere's.
Everybody Knows But Me is a production of Companion Arts and Next Chapter podcasts. This episode was written by me, Holly Brown. The scene you just heard is a fictionalized version of very real moments from my life, scripted by our lead producer, editor, music supervisor, and sound designer, Pete Mustow. It featured Danny Ross playing my dad, Valerie Tossey playing my mom, Maddie Wirth as my sister Casey, Garrett Westcamp as my brother Carson, Casey Rose as me, and Pete Mustow as our show's announcer.
Our associate producer is Alana Nevins. Our story editor for episode 1 is Brad Lewandowski. Original theme music by Kyle Murdoch. Our show artwork was created by Aaron Hill. Our video producer is Emily Reeves. Our videographer is Dalton Politka. Our animator is Justin Cortes. Our marketing team is Tink Media. Our executive producers are Jeremiah Tittle and also me, Holly Brown. Special thanks to AJ Feliciano, Laura Montenegro, Farid Hajji, and the whole Companion team, Lauren Pacel, Ariel Nissenblat, Brian Barletta, Alex Schafford, and Michael Goodfriend for believing in this show.
And thanks most of all to my family and friends for supporting and being a part of this. New episodes of Everybody Knows But Me come out every Wednesday. Follow the show on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, youtube.com/everybodyknowspodcast, or wherever you get great content like ours. Do you have a story of family secrets or darkly funny drama that you want to share? We want to hear it. Email us at everybodyknowspod@gmail.com. Follow me at Holly Brown Comedy, and follow the show at Everybody Knows But Me on Instagram.
And come back next week to find out what crazy hijinks the Brown family is in for and hear more of the stories we tell ourselves to survive.
Well, now the years are adding up, and they're still going strong, and I know they'll cut a little rug each time they hear this song. And I hope that I'm as lucky and I find the love is true. My granddad and my grandma's even know. We know it took two trips to Kentucky and knew it close to '95. Too young to get married on this side of the line. Not 'til they got there did granny change her mind. Sure as glad my granddad went and tried a second time.
Sure as glad my granddad went and tried a second time.
When she was just 17, Holly Brown’s dad was dying of cancer. It looked like life couldn’t get more traumatic, until her dad dropped a bombshell….or two bombshells, really: twin brothers that her entire family kept secret. She was the only one who didn’t know they existed. After his death left her with more questions than answers, Holly sets out to uncover how a secret this big could be hidden, and why the sitcoms that raised her were often the only way to make sense of a life stranger than TV. Season 1 is Holly’s own f*cked up family sitcom full of secrets…Season 2 is yours.