You'd Be Home Now

Think about the last time you saw a professional cake decorator at work. They have a collection of pastry bags, each filled with frosting, each fitted with a different metal tip. One tip pipes perfect, delicate leaves. Another creates a starburst. A third makes a smooth, braided rope. The decorator knows exactly which bag to grab to create the desired effect. Now, imagine being handed two of those bags. One is labeled 'GOOD SISTER,' and the other, 'BAD SISTER.' You’re told that these are the only two options you get, for every cake, for the rest of your life. You can be the perfect, reliable one who holds everything together, or you can be the one who causes all the problems. There's no bag for 'scared,' 'grieving,' 'confused,' or 'just trying to get through the day.'

For Emory, the main character in You'd Be Home Now, this isn't a hypothetical. She’s been handed the 'good sister' bag, while her brother, Joey, is stuck with the 'bad' one. After a car crash that lands Joey in rehab for his opioid addiction, Emory’s job is to be the steady hand, the quiet support, the one who doesn't cause any more trouble for her already fractured family. She must pipe perfect, decorative leaves over the cracks in their lives, even as she's crumbling inside. But what happens when the pressure to be 'good' becomes its own kind of prison, and the one person she's supposed to be watching is the only one who ever really saw her?

This intense pressure to fit into a pre-assigned family role is something author Kathleen Glasgow understands on a cellular level. Having grown up in a family grappling with the complexities of addiction, she saw firsthand how one person's crisis can ripple outward, assigning everyone else a part to play without their consent. Glasgow wrote You'd Be Home Now as an exploration of the quiet, often invisible toll addiction takes on the siblings left behind. It’s a story born from her own wish to give a voice to the 'good' kids who are screaming on the inside, desperate to be seen as more than just a supporting character in someone else's tragedy.

Module 1: The Invisible Sibling and the Burden of Roles

The story plunges us into the life of Emory Ward, a teenage girl trapped in a family role she never chose. In the aftermath of a tragic car accident involving her brother, Joey, who has an opioid addiction, Emory’s world is defined by a rigid, unspoken script. This introduces a critical insight. Families in crisis often assign rigid roles to their children, creating immense pressure and emotional invisibility.

Emory sees herself as "the good one." Her sister, Maddie, is the beautiful one. Her brother, Joey, is the problem. Emory feels she doesn't exist outside this label. She reflects, "Sometimes I feel like I don’t exist in this house because I’m not beautiful and loud, like Maddie, or a problem, like Joey. I’m just me." This is a profound crisis of identity. Her needs, her pain, and her trauma from the accident are all secondary to Joey’s addiction. This dynamic forces her into a caretaking position, where she feels responsible for managing his chaos to keep the peace.

But here’s the thing. This assigned role comes with a heavy price. This leads to the next core idea: Caretaking for a loved one with addiction blurs the lines between support and enabling, leading to deep-seated guilt. Emory is haunted by the accident. A girl named Candy MontClair died. Emory was there. Joey was high. Emory can’t shake the feeling that if she hadn't covered for Joey’s secrets for so long, things might have been different. She thinks, "I feel guilty about Joey, like part of this is my fault, for keeping his secrets." This guilt is a constant companion, shaping her every decision.

And it doesn't stop there. The family's response to the crisis only reinforces these toxic dynamics. The parents are emotionally distant, arguing about Joey and sleeping in separate rooms. Their mother’s approach to "care" is a mix of fear and control. She locks away all medications, including Emory's prescribed painkillers for her fractured kneecap, terrified of creating another "temptation." This action, meant to protect Joey, completely invalidates Emory's legitimate pain. It sends a clear message: your suffering is a liability. This reveals a painful truth. In a family consumed by addiction, "care" can become a form of control, further isolating the individuals it's meant to protect. Emory is left to manage her physical and emotional trauma alone, a ghost in her own home.