Choosing You, Choosing Myself: A Story of Friendship, Family, and Small-Town Dreams

“If you leave, don’t bother coming back.” My mother’s voice cracked across the kitchen, sharp as the cracked linoleum beneath my sneakers. The suitcase in my hand felt heavier than it should have—full of not just clothes, but panic, hope, and the ghost of every argument we’d ever had.

I met Emily on the first day of orientation at Forestville State. She wore red lipstick like armor and laughed too loudly, just like me. People assumed we were sisters, and in a way, we became that, fast. We’d both grown up in towns where dreams suffocated in the same air as cornfields and diesel fumes. But Emily seemed fearless, while I still flinched at the sound of my dad’s truck rumbling home from the bar at midnight.

That first week, after classes, we sat on the quad, books unopened, swapping stories. “So, your dad drinks too much?” She asked it without judgment, just curiosity. I stared at her, wondering if she could see the bruises that never quite reached my skin.

“Yeah. My mom says he’s just tired, but I know what a hangover looks like.”

She nodded. “Mine left when I was ten. I guess some dads are just better at disappearing.”

We laughed, but it wasn’t funny. It was relief, the kind that comes from saying the thing out loud.

By Thanksgiving, Emily’s tiny apartment had become my sanctuary. My roommate, Kayla, kept her side of the room like a Pinterest ad, and her boyfriend was always around. Emily let me crash on her couch any time I needed. We made Kraft mac and cheese, watched old movies, and built a world where the past couldn’t touch us.

But December brought snow and letters from home. My mom’s handwriting trembled with worry: “We miss you. Your dad’s not himself.” I read it aloud to Emily, voice flat. She shook her head. “You can’t fix them, Haley. You can only fix you.”

I tried not to believe her. I went home for Christmas, suitcase packed with the idea that maybe my being there would make things better. But the house was small and loud with silence. My dad barely looked at me. My mom fussed over the turkey, eyes rimmed red. At dinner, he snapped at her, and I snapped at him. Plates clattered. He stormed out. My mother just sat staring at the gravy boat, like if she held still enough, nobody would notice she was breaking.

I called Emily from the porch, breath fogging in the cold. “I shouldn’t have come home.”

“Come back,” she said. “You belong here now.”

Spring semester, Emily dragged me to parties. She kissed boys and girls, danced on tables, lived like she didn’t care who was watching. I envied her, but I was afraid. Afraid if I let go, if I stopped being the good daughter, I’d become nothing at all.

One night, she asked, “If you could choose anyone, anyone at all, to be your family, who would you pick?”

I hesitated. “I don’t know. You, maybe.”

She grinned. “I’d pick you, too.”

But life isn’t just about who you’d pick. It’s about who picks you, and who you choose to become anyway.

April brought bad news. My father had been arrested for a DUI. My mother called, begging me to come home. “He needs you, Haley. Please.”

Emily watched me pack, silent for once. “You don’t have to do this,” she said softly.

“I know,” I whispered. But I did it anyway.

Back in my old room, posters curling at the corners, I could feel the walls closing in. My dad was angry, humiliated. My mom was exhausted. I cooked, cleaned, called lawyers. I got up early and drove him to AA meetings, sat in the car because he didn’t want me inside. I missed classes. I missed Emily. I missed myself.

One night, after another fight, I ran. I drove to the old railroad tracks and screamed into the dark. My phone buzzed. Emily. “Come back. Please, Haley. You can’t save them by losing yourself.”

I stared at the headlights in the distance, wondered if there was a world where I could just disappear into the future I’d dreamed about.

By the end of the semester, I was failing two classes. My advisor called me in. “Haley, you’re a bright student. But you can’t do everything. What do you want?”

I didn’t know. I just wanted peace. I wanted to stop feeling like every choice was a betrayal.

Emily showed up at my house, uninvited, brave as always. She hugged my mother, shook my father’s hand. “I’m not taking Haley away. I’m just reminding her she’s allowed to want more.”

Later, in my room, she held my hand. “You get to choose, Haley. You get to choose your life.”

I cried then, for all the lost things: childhood, home, the idea that love could fix everything.

I went back to school. I retook my classes. I apologized to Kayla for being a terrible roommate. I told Emily I loved her, not in the way people thought, but in the way that you love someone who saves your life by reminding you it’s yours.

My dad still drinks, sometimes. My mom is still tired. But I visit them on my terms now. I’m learning that you can love people and still leave. That choosing yourself isn’t selfish.

So, if you had to choose—your past, your family, or yourself—what would you do? Is it possible to love them and still walk away? Or is choosing yourself always the hardest thing of all?