For Someone, You Matter – Emily’s Story from Small-Town Ohio

“You’re never going to be enough for her, Emily. You know that, right?”

My brother’s words slammed into my chest like a cold fist as I stood in the kitchen, hands trembling over a chipped mug of coffee. The morning sun barely filtered through the yellowed curtains, and the air was thick with last night’s argument. Mom had slammed her bedroom door after shouting that I’d never amount to anything, that I was only good for disappointing people. I’d barely slept, my mind replaying her words over and over, as if maybe this time I could change her mind, say the right thing, earn her love.

But my brother Tyler, always a realist, saw right through my hope. He leaned against the fridge, arms folded, voice flat. “She’s not gonna change, Em. You need to stop trying.”

“Easy for you to say,” I shot back, blinking away the sting in my eyes. “She loves you. You’re the golden child.”

He snorted, shaking his head. “She doesn’t love anyone, not really. She just loves control.”

I wanted to argue, to defend her, but the words died on my tongue. He was right. I’d spent twenty-four years on this tired stretch of road outside Dover, Ohio, doing everything just to be noticed: straight A’s, cheer captain, working double shifts at the diner while Mom nursed her whiskey and Tyler ran with the wrong crowd. But all she ever saw were my mistakes. The time I forgot to pick up her medication, the day I came home late from studying with my best friend, Mike, the boy she always called “that troublemaker.”

Mike. Just thinking his name made my heart ache. He’d been my safe place since childhood, the only person who really listened, who saw past the mess of our lives. But I ruined that, too. Two years ago, on a sticky July night, we sat on the hood of his dad’s old Chevy, fireflies blinking in the cornfields, and I told him I loved him. I waited for him to say it back, to pull me close and promise we’d escape this town together. Instead, he shook his head, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry, Em. I wish I could.”

I never asked what he meant. I just stopped calling, stopped answering his texts. We drifted, and I filled the emptiness with work, trying to save enough money to move somewhere, anywhere else. But every time I got close, something pulled me back: Mom’s health scare, Tyler’s stint in county jail, the guilt that pressed on my chest like a stone.

Last month, everything snapped. I came home late after a double shift, exhausted and smelling of fried onions, to find Mom on the porch, bottle in hand, screaming at the neighbors. I tried to get her inside, but she shoved me, hard. “You’re just like your father, running off when things get tough!”

I didn’t run. I stood there, shaking, as the neighbors watched from behind their curtains. I wanted to scream, to tell her how much I’d given up for her, how alone I felt in this house full of memories that never let me breathe. But instead, I helped her inside, tucked her into bed, and sat in the dark until sunrise, feeling smaller than ever.

The next morning, I called in sick to work and wandered aimlessly down Main Street, past the shuttered factory, the church where everyone knew your business, and the old high school where my trophies gathered dust. I found myself outside Mike’s garage, the doors open, music blaring. He looked up, grease on his hands, eyes wide. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he wiped his hands on his jeans and said, “You look like you could use a friend.”

We sat in the back, legs dangling off the edge of the workbench. I told him everything—about Mom, Tyler, the emptiness that never left. He listened, really listened, and for the first time in years, I felt seen.

“Em, you can’t save her,” he said gently. “You can’t save any of us. You’ve got to save yourself.”

I laughed, bitter and raw. “How? I don’t even know who I am without all this.”

He reached over, squeezed my hand. “Maybe it’s time to find out.”

That night, I packed a bag. I didn’t leave a note. I drove Tyler’s beat-up Ford out of town, the radio turned up so loud I couldn’t think. I ended up in Columbus, crashing on a friend’s couch, working at a coffee shop and feeling the weight start to lift. Every day, I texted Tyler, checked in on Mom, but I didn’t go back. Not yet. I started drawing again, something I hadn’t done since high school. I met people who didn’t know my story, who saw me as more than a collection of my mother’s disappointments.

Two months later, Tyler called me. “She’s asking for you,” he said quietly. “She’s sick, Em. Real sick this time.”

I should’ve felt something—anger, guilt, love—but all I felt was tired. I hesitated, staring at the gray city skyline. “I don’t know if I can come back,” I whispered.

He didn’t push. “Whatever you decide, I get it. But you matter to me. You always have.”

After we hung up, I sat in the window, watching the traffic, the city alive with possibilities. For the first time, I wondered if I could matter to myself, too.

I did go back, eventually. Not for her, but for me. To say goodbye to the past, to forgive her and myself. When I walked through the front door, the house felt smaller, less powerful. Mom was frail, her eyes watery but softer than I remembered. She cried, apologized, said she wished she’d been better. I held her hand and told her I forgave her, even if I wasn’t sure I meant it yet.

After she passed, Tyler and I sat on the porch, watching the sun dip below the cornfields. He nudged me, smiling. “You gonna stay?”

I shook my head. “No. But I’ll visit.”

He nodded, tears in his eyes. “I’m proud of you, Em.”

Driving back to Columbus, I felt the past loosen its grip. I called Mike, told him I was ready to be friends again, maybe more. I started living, really living, for the first time.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I see someone who finally matters—to herself most of all. And I wonder: How many of us waste years chasing love from those who can’t give it, when the people who truly care are right there, waiting? Who are you living for?