“Mare of Easttown” is all about Mare Sheehan, a detective in a tiny Pennsylvania town solving a murder. Spoiler alert: she has personal issues that could fill a self-help book. As she digs into the case, she battles her own demons and juggles family drama and love life chaos. It dives into grief, loss and how tragedy messes with a close-knit community. With performances from Kate Winslet, Jean Smart and Evan Peters, it is no wonder this show became a hit.

Meet the characters from Mare of Easttown

Mare Sheehan

Okay, Mare is the whole show wrapped into one exhausted, brilliant, jeans-and-flannel package — a detective who looks like she’s been through every small-town heartbreak and somehow stayed stubbornly heroic. She’s sharp as a tack at work, messy at home, drinks too much coffee (or wine? both?) and will absolutely call you out but also bring you soup when you cry. There’s this relentless loyalty thing with her family and friends that is equal parts fierce and kind of terrifying, in a good way. She’s kind of messy with flowers and mortality metaphors and has the kind of face that says “I’ve seen things” — but also sneaks cookies. I love how she’s equal parts tired realist and soft-hearted troublemaker, like someone who keeps a secret stash of chocolate and a spreadsheet of everybody’s petty grudges.

Lori Ross

Lori is that loud, warm, borderline meddlesome friend who will show up with casseroles and opinions and zero shame — and you secretly want her at every awkward family dinner. She’s practical and sunny but has these flickers of steel when things get serious, which is kind of adorable and slightly terrifying (in a good, protective way). She gossip-hums through the town but also remembers everyone’s birthdays and weird allergies; she hoards Tupperware and quotes rom-coms at inappropriate times. Sometimes she’s utterly cheerful, sometimes she’s brittle, and honestly those mood swings make her feel so real — like someone who cries in the car and then texts you five memes.

Helen

Helen feels like the town matriarch who knits judgment into every gesture but will also slip you a twenty when you look down — you know, complicated grandma energy. She’s blunt and not very good at pretending, which everyone either loves or fears, and she has this wonky moral compass that somehow mostly points north. She’s a little old-school, a little nosy, and maybe has a few secrets tucked into her apron pockets (or is that me projecting?). Honestly, she’ll make you tea, give you advice you didn’t ask for, and then wink like she remembers things she’s not telling you — I adore that.

Siobhan Sheehan

Siobhan is small-but-mighty in the quietest way — I mean, she carries so much under that teenage sarcasm and you can tell she’s old-soul level intense. She’s sharp, awkward, moody, brilliant in moments, and there’s a fragility that makes you want to both hug and protect her and also respect the space around her. She likes music (I’m sure), draws things, maybe holds grudges like collectibles, and definitely has a notebook with private poems or conspiracy theories. Sometimes she’s inscrutable, sometimes she’s a snappy wisecracker, and either way her presence makes everything feel heavier and tenderer at the same time.

Frank Sheehan

Frank is gruff and kind of weathered, like an old truck you can’t help but admire — not flashy, just solid and worn-in and a little lopsided. He does the dad-ish, ex-husband-ish things where he’s stubborn but quietly caring, the sort of man who says the wrong thing and then tries to fix it with a beer and a sincere shrug. He’s got regret and love stitched into him; sometimes he’s an emotional puddle, other times he’s annoyingly practical (like “did you feed the dog?” practical). There’s a softness under the gravelly voice and also a tendency to nap in ridiculous places, so I’m torn between respecting him and chuckling at him.

Father Dan Hastings

Father Dan is the priest who is somehow both exactly what you expect (gentle, interior life, soft-spoken) and nothing like you’d assume (he’s messy, fallible, kind of human in the painfully relatable ways). He listens like it’s his job — because it is — but he also carries his own private storms, so there’s this sad, sincere kindness about him that’s hard to forget. He drinks coffee like it’s sacrament, has weirdly specific opinions about music, and keeps showing up at the wrong times with the right intentions. He feels like someone trying very hard to be good, and that struggle? It’s basically all the best TV moments wrapped into one conflicted heart.

Richard Ryan

Richard is slick in the most disarming way — polished, confident, maybe a little too ready with a smile, but also oddly earnest when you least expect it. He carries an air of out-of-towner sophistication (expensive coat, jaunty cologne, definitely keeps spare cufflinks) but there’s a loneliness underneath like a draft you can’t quite seal. He flirts with charm and vulnerability and sometimes you think “he could be the problem” and sometimes you think “he could be the answer” — it’s deliciously ambiguous. He likes classic playlists, probably owns a leather-bound notebook, and will make you laugh and then make you suspicious in the same breath.

Erin McMenamin

Erin is tough, practical, quietly furious in the best possible way — she’s that no-nonsense person who’s had to grow up fast and refuses to be small about it. She’s a mom, she’s protective, she’s sharp with a big soft center that only the right people see; also she crafts little rituals to keep the world stable (labeling everything? making playlists?). Sometimes she’s wary and shuts down like a turtle, sometimes she’s fierce and roaring, and those switches are part of what makes her so magnetic. Also, she probably owns a surprisingly excellent eyeliner and an impressive collection of takeout containers.

Chief Carter

Chief Carter is the straight-arrow lawman — professional, procedural, and borderline allergic to chaos unless it’s organized chaos. He’s the “paperwork first” kind of cop who actually cares about the job more than the heroics, which is kind of comforting? He’s dry, a little sardonic, carries himself like a man who’s lived through too many winters, and he keeps people in line with one raised eyebrow. There’s a quiet decency to him, sure, but also a tiredness, like coffee-stained shirts and a calendar full of unresolved notes; he might hum old rock songs when nobody’s around.

John Ross

John is blue-collar practicality personified — big, blunt, sometimes infuriatingly stubborn but also oddly tender in private ways he’d never admit. He has that small-town masculinity thing but it’s messy and occasionally vulnerable, like someone learning to say sorry after five tries. He’s loyal to a fault and sometimes his temper is as quick as his laugh, which makes him a little unpredictable in the best/worst ways. Also, I have this image of him collecting baseball cards in a shoebox and maybe owning one lopsided hat he refuses to throw out — makes him human, okay?

Ryan Ross

Ryan is this moody, secretive kid who seems older than he should be — quiet intensity, bad jokes, and suspiciously good at avoiding direct eye contact. He’s the type who nods along in a conversation and then reveals something that makes you rethink whatever you just assumed, which is equal parts annoying and fascinating. He’s athletic-ish but also broody, has a weirdly specific Spotify playlist, and keeps a notebook of half-formed plans and good ideas he never finishes. He gives off this “I know more than I say” vibe and you’re constantly waiting for him to either melt into a puddle of feelings or explode into action — no in-between, and it’s kind of addictive.