You’d Be Home Now by Kennedy Glasgow: A Melodramatic Journey Through Grief and the Opioid Crisis
There’s something about books that delve into heavy territory that intrigues me. When I stumbled upon You’d Be Home Now by Kennedy Glasgow, my curiosity was piqued by its poignant themes revolving around loss and the opioid crisis—two subjects that weigh heavily on our society today. I was ready for a profound exploration of grief and redemption, but what I encountered was a mixed bag that left me more frustrated than enlightened.
The story follows Emory, a teenage girl grappling with the fallout of a tragic event that devastates her small-town life, as her brother Joey spirals into addiction. Glasgow attempts to tackle the opioid epidemic, a contemporary issue that’s in dire need of attention, but the execution often felt painfully superficial. The narrative is rife with the classic marks of “prestige” literature—the tragic event, the absentee parents, and an atmosphere steeped in moodiness—which, while they aim for realism, ultimately detract from the book’s overall impact. Rather than flourishing with depth, it often felt hollow and overly focused on melodrama.
Throughout my reading experience, I was struck by how repetitive the pacing felt. Emory oscillates between feelings of guilt and inaction, leading to a narrative that lacked momentum. While her emotional turmoil is understandable, over 50% of the book involves her internal monologues without any substantial plot advancement. I often found myself longing for a spark—a significant moment that would propel the story forward or offer a new perspective on her situation. Instead, I was left wondering what made Emory’s journey so compelling that it warranted its own narrative.
There was a flicker of potential in the early tease of a parallel between Emory and Joey’s paths towards drugs, which could have propelled the discussion on addiction into deeper waters. However, this thread faded into a heavy-handed commentary that offered little aside from a simplistic view of the healthcare system’s shortcomings without further context. Glasgow’s attempts to humanize those grappling with addiction did resonate—with moments showcasing their struggles and humanity—but they felt overshadowed by a narrative that lacked a genuine exploration of the complexity of these social issues.
As for character development, the relationships between Emory, Joey, their parents, and friends felt static, with predictability in their interactions. The emotionally neglectful mother was a recurring archetype—one-dimensional and devoid of nuance—making it hard to cultivate any sense of empathy toward her. The book’s portrayal of Liza, the “white feminist” character, also struck a discordant note, coming off as a caricature rather than a well-rounded individual. These elements diluted any potential connection I could have forged with the characters.
On a brighter note, the last quarter of You’d Be Home Now finally introduced some action and intrigue, even if it felt rushed and disjointed compared to the preceding chapters. Yet, the ending felt overly wrapped up, leading me to question its authenticity.
Reading You’d Be Home Now felt like a rollercoaster of missed opportunities. While teens might find some moments resonant, the lack of depth and meaningful engagement with pressing social issues makes me hesitate to recommend it universally. However, if you’re intrigued by tales that tackle grief and addiction, and don’t mind a melodramatic flair, you might still find something to latch onto. For me, it started as a promising exploration but ultimately fell short, leaving me wandering toward a hopeful next read.
If you’re a teen or a young adult looking to engage with important issues, you might appreciate Emory’s story—just be prepared for a narrative that might feel more like a scripted drama than a riveting exploration of humanity.
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