Netflix has quietly added a gem to its library that demands to be felt rather than merely watched: Mothering Sunday, the 2021 British period drama that has been gaining renewed attention and quiet buzz in early 2026. Directed by Eva Husson and adapted by Alice Birch from Graham Swift’s acclaimed novella, the film is a slow, aching exploration of love, loss, class divides, and the enduring scars of World War I. It doesn’t rely on grand gestures or sweeping melodrama—instead, it builds its emotional power through restraint, subtle glances, lingering silences, and the weight of unspoken regrets. This is a film that slips under your skin and lingers long after the credits fade.

Set primarily on Mothering Sunday in 1924, the story centers on Jane Fairchild (Odessa Young), a young orphan and housemaid working for the wealthy Niven family in the English countryside. Jane has been “in service” since she was fourteen, her life defined by quiet obedience and the invisible boundaries of class. Yet she harbors a secret: a passionate, years-long affair with Paul Sheringham (Josh O’Connor), the charming but doomed heir to a neighboring aristocratic family. On this rare day off—while her employers, Mr. and Mrs. Niven (Colin Firth and Olivia Colman), attend a celebratory luncheon for Paul’s impending engagement to a “suitable” match—Jane bicycles to Paul’s empty family home for what both know will be their final tryst.

What unfolds is intimate and sensual: a stolen afternoon of lovemaking, conversation, and quiet rebellion against the rigid social order that separates them. Jane, free for once from her uniform and duties, wanders naked through Paul’s opulent rooms, exploring his bookshelves and his world in a moment of unguarded vulnerability. Paul, ever the gentleman even in passion, provides her with contraception and treats her with tenderness that transcends their stations. Their connection feels real and lived-in, charged with the knowledge that this is goodbye—Paul is bound by duty to marry within his class, and Jane understands the impossibility of anything more.

The film weaves this pivotal day with flashes forward and backward in time, tracing Jane’s life as she evolves from maid to acclaimed writer. We glimpse her in midlife with her partner Donald (Ṣọpẹ́ Dìrísù), a thoughtful philosopher who offers her stability and intellectual companionship, and later as an elderly woman (a brief but poignant appearance by Glenda Jackson), reflecting on the paths not taken. These non-linear glimpses add layers of poignancy, showing how that one sunlit afternoon reverberates through decades, shaping Jane’s voice as a storyteller and her understanding of love’s fleeting nature.

At the heart of the film’s quiet devastation are the Nivens, portrayed with heartbreaking subtlety by Firth and Colman. The couple lost their two sons in the Great War, and the grief has hollowed them out in different ways. Godfrey Niven (Firth) clings to brittle politeness, filling silences with awkward small talk about the weather and forcing smiles that never reach his eyes—he’s a man desperately trying to hold things together. Clarrie Niven (Colman) has retreated into sharp, flinty bitterness, her once-vivacious spirit replaced by long silences and sudden flashes of rage. A single scene at the luncheon table, where the bereaved parents gather with friends to toast Paul’s future, crackles with unspoken pain: the forced cheer, the empty chairs, the way grief poisons every polite exchange. Colman and Firth deliver masterclasses in restraint—a quivering lip, a averted gaze, a hand that trembles slightly—conveying more anguish than any monologue could.

The war’s shadow looms over everything. The generation that survived carries invisible wounds: lost sons, shattered families, a society forever changed. Jane, “comprehensively bereaved at birth” with no family to mourn, is ironically freer than those burdened by memory. Mrs. Niven even tells her it’s a gift—no one left to lose—yet the film gently dismantles that notion, showing how loss, even inherited or vicarious, shapes us all.

Visually, Mothering Sunday is lush and evocative. Cinematographer Jamie Ramsay captures the golden English spring light filtering through windows, the soft glow on bare skin, the verdant countryside that contrasts with inner desolation. Costume designer Sandy Powell outfits the characters impeccably—Jane’s simple maid’s dress giving way to freedom, the aristocrats’ elegant but somber attire. The score by Rob Moose is minimal and haunting, allowing space for natural sounds: birdsong, bicycle wheels on gravel, the rustle of sheets.

Young anchors the film with a performance of flinty grace and quiet intensity. Her Jane is observant, intelligent, and unafraid—qualities that propel her toward a future as a writer. O’Connor brings charm and tragic vulnerability to Paul, making his doomed fate feel inevitable yet heartbreaking. Supporting roles add texture: Patsy Ferran and Emma D’Arcy as peripheral figures in the social web, and Glenda Jackson’s cameo as older Jane, sharp and unimpressed by literary accolades.

Critics have praised the film’s sensual intimacy and emotional depth, calling it lush yet aching, intoxicating on an intuitive level even as its structure occasionally disorients with time jumps. Some note it can feel chilly or understated, prioritizing mood over momentum, but that’s precisely its strength: it trusts viewers to feel the ache without spelling it out. In an era of loud spectacles, Mothering Sunday dares to be slow, haunting, and emotionally unforgiving.

Themes of forbidden love, class barriers, and the persistence of regret resonate deeply. Love survives war’s immediate horrors but often succumbs to time, duty, and society’s expectations. Regret becomes a companion that never fully departs. Jane’s journey—from bereaved maid to self-possessed author—offers a bittersweet note of resilience amid the sorrow.

Now streaming on Netflix, this hidden treasure rewards patience. It doesn’t shout its pain; it whispers, lingers, and hurts in the quietest, most profound ways. If you’re ready for a film that aches beautifully and stays with you, Mothering Sunday is waiting to slip under your skin.