Waves Beyond the Horizon: Emily’s Fight for the Sea

“Emily, we can’t afford it. Not this year, honey.”

Mom’s voice trembled as she said it, her hands tight around her mug of store-brand coffee. I stared at her across the Formica kitchen table, the faded sunflowers on the surface almost mocking me. I’d heard the same words every year since Dad left, but this time was supposed to be different. This time, I’d saved up for myself. I crumpled the envelope of cash in my lap, the one with FOR THE OCEAN written in blue ink.

“I already bought my bus ticket, Mom. I used my own money.” My voice quivered, betraying my confidence. Mom’s eyes flashed with pain—maybe guilt, maybe anger. Maybe both.

“You know your brother needs those shoes for soccer, and your grandma’s prescriptions…” She trailed off, rubbing at a stain on the table as if it could erase the reality of our bills piling up on the counter behind her.

But all I could see was the ocean. I could almost hear it—the crash and hiss, the gulls shrieking, the endless horizon that didn’t care about overdue electric bills or worn-out sneakers. The closest I’d ever been was a distant memory: me, three years old, holding Dad’s hand on a cold, gray Atlantic shore. I remembered nothing but the feel of wet sand and the smell of salt. Ever since, I’ve wanted nothing more than to feel that again.

My world was small: a patchwork of cornfields, a dying main street, and endless nights watching YouTube videos of surfers and travel bloggers. I worked part-time at the Dollar Tree, folding cheap T-shirts and ringing up neighbors who pretended not to notice how tired I looked. Every month, I slid twenty dollars into my envelope. I didn’t buy Starbucks or new jeans. I didn’t go to prom. I told myself it would all be worth it, just to see the ocean for real.

But now, with Mom’s voice cracking and my little brother, Ben, peeking around the corner, I felt selfish. Was it wrong to want something for myself when everyone else needed so much?

That night, I lay in bed listening to the creaks of our old house and the distant rumble of a freight train. I clutched my envelope, heart pounding. My mind raced: Go. Stay. Help. Dream. I remembered Dad’s last words before he left for good, words I’d spent years trying to forget: “You gotta look out for yourself, Em. No one else will.”

I hated him for saying that. I hated that maybe he was right.

The next morning, Mom’s car wouldn’t start. Ben had a fever. Grandma called needing help with her oxygen tank. My ocean seemed farther away than ever. At school, Mrs. Carter handed me a brochure for a community college in Cleveland. “You’re bright, Emily. Don’t let this place hold you back.” Her smile was sad, like she’d seen too many girls like me with big dreams and empty pockets.

At lunch, my best friend Jess plopped down next to me with her usual explosion of energy. “You ready for the beach, Em? Only two weeks!” She grinned, but I couldn’t meet her eyes. I hadn’t told her about Mom or the bills or the envelope now hidden behind my dresser.

“I don’t know if I can go,” I muttered, staring at my peanut butter sandwich.

“What? Why?”

I shrugged. “Family stuff.”

Jess was silent for a moment. Then she squeezed my hand. “You deserve this, Em. You worked so hard. Don’t let them take it from you.”

That night, I counted my money again. $348.62. Enough for the Greyhound to Myrtle Beach, three nights at the cheapest motel, and maybe a shrimp basket if I skipped breakfast. I thought about Ben’s shoes, Grandma’s pills, the unpaid water bill. I thought about the way Mom’s shoulders hunched when she thought no one was looking, the way she stared at old family photos like she was looking for a way back.

I thought about Jess’s words. I thought about Dad’s.

The next day, I gave Mom fifty dollars for Ben’s shoes. I called Jess and told her I was still coming. She squealed, and for the first time in weeks, I smiled.

The bus ride was long and uncomfortable, my backpack jammed under my knees, but I didn’t care. I watched the landscape change from endless fields to rolling hills to the distant glimmer of water. When I finally stepped off the bus and smelled the salt in the air, I thought I might cry.

Jess and I twirled in the sand, laughing like little kids. I waded into the waves, letting the water pull at my ankles. I closed my eyes and listened—the ocean was exactly as I’d dreamed, and nothing like it at all. It was colder, wilder, louder. It was real.

On the last night, Jess and I sat on the shore, toes in the sand, the sky bleeding orange and purple.

“Worth it?” she asked.

I nodded, tears pricking my eyes. “Worth everything.”

When I got home, nothing had changed. Grandma was still sick. Ben had outgrown his new shoes already. Bills stacked up. But I was different. I knew what it felt like to chase something for myself, and I knew I could do it again.

Sometimes, late at night, I scroll through photos of the waves and wonder: Did I do the right thing? Can you really build a life on hope when reality keeps knocking at your door? What would you have done in my place?