Before It’s Too Late: A Story of Family, Addiction, and Hope in Suburbia

“Eric, don’t come back here if you’re high. I mean it this time.”

The rain splatters my sneakers, soaking through to my socks, but I barely notice. I’m perched on the curb outside my mom’s house, staring at the flickering porch light like it’s some kind of beacon. My brother, Josh, stands in the doorway, arms crossed, jaw tight. He’s always been the strong one, the one who handled Dad leaving, who got a job at sixteen, who started paying rent when Mom got sick. I was supposed to be the smart one—scholarship kid, mathlete, all that—but I’m not sure anyone remembers that part of me anymore. Least of all, me.

I want to argue with Josh, but my voice is stuck somewhere deep in my throat. Maybe it’s the way his eyes won’t meet mine, or maybe it’s the way Mom’s silhouette hovers behind him, small and uncertain. I feel like a ghost in my own life.

“Just let me in,” I whisper, hating how weak I sound. “I’m clean, I swear.”

Josh’s knuckles turn white on the doorframe. “You said that last week, Eric. And the week before.”

He’s right. I know he’s right, but the twitch under my skin says otherwise. The craving gnaws at my insides, and I tell myself I’m just cold, just tired, but I know better. I’m twenty-four years old and already an expert at lying—to my family, to my friends, to myself.

The first time I got high, I told myself it was just to take the edge off. College was harder than I expected, and everyone else seemed to have their life together. One pill became two, then three. I started missing classes, stopped answering calls. When I lost my scholarship, I blamed the system. When I lost my apartment, I blamed my roommate. When I ended up back in Mom’s basement, I blamed everyone but myself.

Mom steps forward, her voice like the rustle of old paper. “Eric, honey, we want to help you. But you have to let us.”

The porch light flickers again and I wonder if I’m the reason it keeps shorting out. If I’m the storm in this house, the reason everything keeps breaking.

Josh sighs, rubbing his face. “If you’re really clean, come inside. But if I find anything—anything—you’re out. For good.”

He lets me pass, but I can feel his eyes on me, sharp as glass. Mom offers me a towel, and I wrap myself in it, shivering.

Dinner is silent. The clatter of forks on ceramic, the hum of the fridge. Mom tries to ask about job interviews, but I don’t have any answers she wants to hear. Josh eats fast, like he can’t wait to get away from me.

Afterwards, I sit on the edge of my old bed, staring at the cracked ceiling. I hear Josh’s voice through the wall, low and angry, talking to Mom.

“He’s lying, Mom. He’s always lying. You can’t keep enabling him.”

A pause. Mom’s softer, trembling. “He’s my son, Josh. I can’t just give up.”

I press my fists to my eyes, wishing I could disappear. That’s when my phone buzzes. It’s Amber, my ex-girlfriend. We haven’t spoken since I stole her laptop to pawn for cash.

her text reads: “Did you ever find the help you needed?”

My fingers hover over the screen. I want to tell her I’m better, that I’m the guy she fell in love with freshman year. But I’m not. Not yet.

The next morning, Josh finds me in the kitchen, pouring cereal I know I won’t eat. He leans against the counter, arms folded.

“I got you an appointment,” he says. “Rehab. Outpatient, so you can still work—if you get a job. They’re expecting you at ten.”

I look up, startled. “You did that… for me?”

He shrugs. “For Mom. For all of us. But you have to go, Eric. Or you’re out.”

It feels like an ultimatum, but it’s not. It’s a lifeline. I stare at my shaking hands. I want to believe I can do this.

The rehab center is a strip mall office wedged between a payday loan place and a vape shop. Inside, the chairs are plastic and the coffee is burnt, but the counselor, a woman named Diane, looks me in the eye when she asks, “What are you afraid of, Eric?”

I think of Josh’s disappointment, Mom’s worry, Amber’s silence. “Losing them. Losing myself.”

She nods. “That’s a good place to start.”

The weeks blur together—group sessions, drug tests, awkward laughter with strangers who know too much about pain. I slip once, call Josh sobbing at 2 a.m. Instead of yelling, he just tells me to come home, that they’ll get through it together. For the first time, I believe him.

Amber visits one afternoon. She doesn’t say much, just sits beside me as I fumble through apologies. Before she leaves, she squeezes my hand. “Just don’t give up on yourself, Eric. Not this time.”

Recovery isn’t a straight line. There are days when the urge is so strong I can’t breathe, days when I want to run and never look back. But there are good days, too—like the night Josh and I watch old movies, laughing until we cry, or when Mom hugs me tight after my first month clean.

It’s been six months. I got a job at the grocery store down the street. Josh still watches me like he’s waiting for me to fall, but sometimes he smiles, and it feels real. Mom’s health is better, or maybe she just worries less.

I still sit on the curb sometimes, feel the rain on my skin, remember how close I came to losing everything. I wonder if people ever really forgive, if families can heal after so much broken trust.

But I’m here. I’m trying.

What would you do if your brother or sister needed help, but kept letting you down? How many chances are too many before it’s just too late?