Part 1: The Crash
I don’t remember the impact. Not really.
The night had started out like any other. The rain came down lightly at first, its gentle pattering on the windshield forming a rhythmic lullaby. I remember the sound of my mother’s laugh, a soft, comforting sound that filled the car as I absentmindedly tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. I was talking to her about Nate—the boy who sat two seats ahead of me in chemistry. He was cute, and I had this stupid crush on him. I thought I’d found my new obsession to focus on, my new distraction.
But the rain grew heavier, the pitter-patter turning into a relentless drumbeat against the glass. I glanced at my mother, noticing the way her eyes flickered to me for a split second before returning to the road.
“He sounds like trouble, Maeve,” she said with a smirk, raising an eyebrow.
I rolled my eyes, leaning back in my seat. “Mom, he’s not that bad. You’re just overprotective.”
I remember the headlights. Too close. Too fast.
The next thing I remember is screaming for my mother.
The memory of the car crash is a blur—a fragmented mess of images. I was suddenly outside the car, my knees soaked with mud, my hands covered in blood that didn’t belong to me. There was a strange heaviness to my body, as if the world had just slammed into me and refused to let go. But what I remember most vividly is my mother’s body lying motionless on the pavement. Her twisted limbs. Her half-open eyes staring blankly into the night, her gaze vacant, unfocused.
I screamed her name. I screamed until my throat burned, trying to shake her awake, but she wouldn’t move. She was gone. She had been gone long before I even knew it.
Then there were the sirens.
Hands pulling me away, voices mumbling something about a drunk driver. The words blurred together, fading into a haze of disbelief.
“Maeve, you have to come with us,” someone said, pulling me farther from the wreckage. “We’ll take care of you.”
I could barely hear them. I was too focused on my mother, on her still body lying in front of me. I couldn’t let it go. I couldn’t let her go.
But everything after that went dark.
Part 2: The Hospital
I wake up in a hospital bed, my body aching in ways I don’t understand. The dull fog that clouds my thoughts is slowly lifting, but the truth feels too heavy to confront. The beeping of machines fills the room, accompanied by distant voices, but all I can focus on is the tightness in my chest and the dry ache in my throat.
A nurse is standing by the door, her eyes flicking to me before looking away. She doesn’t seem surprised to see me awake. Maybe it’s routine. Maybe they expected me to wake up soon. I don’t know.
My limbs feel wrong. They don’t belong to me, like they’re someone else’s, disconnected from my thoughts. My head is throbbing, and I try to sit up, but a wave of dizziness overwhelms me. I collapse back into the pillows with a groan.
And then, the door opens. I expect it to be my mom. For a split second, my heart leaps in my chest, and the emptiness in me trembles with hope. Maybe this is all a nightmare. Maybe it was just a dream, and she’ll be here, smiling at me, telling me it’s all going to be okay.
But then I see him.
My father.
Thomas.
He steps into the room, looking older than I remember. His hair has grayed at the temples, his face drawn with lines that weren’t there before. The last time I saw him—Christmas? Two years ago? I can’t remember. He’s a stranger to me, and yet, here he is, sitting beside my bed, his rough, unfamiliar hand hovering over mine, unsure whether to touch me.
“Hey, kid,” he says softly, his voice thick with uncertainty. “How are you feeling?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. The words won’t come. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that when I open them again, everything will be different. But when I open my eyes, my mom still isn’t here. She’s really gone.
I don’t know what to say. What do you say to the man who’s been absent from your life for so long? What do you say when you need him, but you don’t know him anymore?
“Dad, where is Mom?” I finally manage to whisper, my voice scratchy and weak.
His face hardens for just a moment, and then the sadness returns. “She’s… she’s gone, Maeve.”
The words cut through me like a knife. I don’t want to hear them. I don’t want to know that she’s never coming back. But I can’t pretend anymore. The silence that follows is thick, suffocating.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice breaking. “I wish I had been there for you.”
I don’t know what to say. How can I forgive him for being gone all these years? How can I forgive him for not being there when I needed him the most? But somehow, in this moment, I don’t have the strength to be angry. I can’t bring myself to feel anything but this crushing emptiness.
“Maeve,” he says, his hand finally resting on mine. “I’m here now. I know it’s not much, but I’m here.”
I don’t know what that means, but I want to believe him. I want to believe that something can change, that maybe he can be the father I need now. But I don’t know how to let him in. How do I let someone in when they’ve been gone for so long?
The door opens again, and a nurse steps in with a tray of food. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want anything to do with the world outside of this hospital bed. But my father insists, pushing the tray closer to me.
“Come on, kid,” he says gently, trying to smile. “You need to eat something.”
I pick up the spoon, but my hand is shaking. I stare at the food in front of me, the oatmeal, the blandness of it all, and I realize that I don’t want any of this. I don’t want this hospital room, I don’t want my father’s awkward presence, and I certainly don’t want this new life that’s been thrust upon me.
“I don’t want this,” I whisper, pushing the tray away.
My father’s face falters, and for a moment, he looks like he doesn’t know how to fix this. “I know,” he says quietly. “I know it’s hard. But we’ll get through this. Together.”
Together? I don’t know if that’s possible. I don’t know if I’m ready for that.
But as the nurse leaves and my father stands up to leave the room, he places a soft kiss on my forehead.
“I’ll be here when you’re ready, Maeve,” he says, his voice tinged with both hope and uncertainty.
I nod but don’t say anything. I don’t know how to be ready. I don’t know how to heal.
But I have to.
Part 3: The House That Isn’t Mine
Two weeks later, I wake up in a house that doesn’t feel like mine. The bed is too soft, the walls too beige, and the quiet is too… oppressive. I turn to the window, staring at the view of the backyard, but it doesn’t make me feel anything. I feel like I’m trapped in someone else’s life.
Julia is in the kitchen, humming a song I don’t recognize. The smell of something earthy and vaguely sweet clings to the air, and I watch her set a bowl in front of me. Oatmeal, topped with flaxseeds and blueberries. I stare at the bowl for a long moment, my stomach growling in protest.
“I added some hemp hearts,” Julia says casually, as if adding hemp hearts to oatmeal is the most normal thing in the world. “Hemp seeds are good for you, honey.”
I look at the bowl and feel a wave of nausea rise in my throat. I don’t want this. I don’t want anything from this house, this life, this woman who has been thrust into my world as if she’s the replacement for everything that was once mine.
I push the spoon across the table, and Julia watches me, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear, her eyes hopeful but unsure.
“Not hungry, love?” she asks gently.
I am hungry—starving, even—but not for this. Not for her healthy food, not for the emptiness that fills this house. I want greasy diner waffles. I want to go to Sam’s Diner at midnight with my mom, splitting pancakes and laughing at the guy who always falls asleep in booth six. I want to go back to the life I had, even if it was messy, even if it was imperfect.
But I can’t go back. I can’t even pretend that things are the same.
I shake my head and push the bowl away. Julia’s face falls, but she doesn’t say anything at first. She hesitates, then slides a protein ball across the table—some homemade concoction of dates and oats, probably designed to make me feel better, to make me “adjust” to this new life. I don’t take it.
“Maeve,” Julia sighs, her voice soft but insistent. “Your dad will be back soon. He went to get diapers for—”
I stand up before she can finish. I don’t want to hear about diapers. I don’t want to know about this new family, this new world that I’ve been thrown into. I want my old life back. I want my mom. And I want the piece of me that feels lost in this house that isn’t mine.
I leave the kitchen and head upstairs, my steps heavier with each one. My room here doesn’t feel like mine either. It’s filled with things I don’t remember picking out, a bed I didn’t choose, walls that have no history with me. It’s like I’m staying in a stranger’s house, a temporary stop on a journey I didn’t ask for.
I sit on the edge of the bed, my fingers tracing the edge of the quilt, but I can’t focus. I don’t know where to begin, what to do. Everything feels too far away—too far from my mom, from the life I once knew.
The truth is, I don’t belong here. Not with Julia. Not with Thomas. And not in this house.
But what choice do I have?
Part 4: The Courtroom
The morning of the trial, I stand in front of the mirror, surrounded by a pile of discarded clothes. The first dress is too formal. The second makes me look like a kid. The third is too tight, too wrong, too not me.
What do you wear to watch the man who killed your mother sit on trial?
I grab a simple black blouse. It’s comfortable, familiar. It reminds me of the morning of her funeral when I sat on my bed, surrounded by every black item I owned, trying them on, ripping them off. Nothing felt right then. Nothing made me feel ready to bury her.
But today feels different. Today, it’s not about mourning her loss. Today, it’s about seeking justice. Today, I have a purpose, and I know exactly what I need to do.
The blouse fits. It’s simple, but I can wear it. I button it up slowly, my hands trembling as I remember how Mom used to help me with the buttons. She would have told me that it didn’t matter. She would have said, “They’d be too busy looking at that beautiful smile of yours.”
I force myself to keep breathing, forcing my hands to steady as I put on the blazer. It’s stiff and too formal, but it will do. I need to look strong. I need to look like I’m ready to face the truth.
I walk out of my room, past the hallway, past the rooms that still don’t feel like mine, and head down to the kitchen. Thomas is already there, his face a mixture of exhaustion and nerves. He doesn’t say anything as I sit at the table, but I can see the worry in his eyes. He doesn’t know how to help me. And for the first time, I realize—I don’t know how to help him either.
“Are you ready?” he asks, his voice gentle, uncertain.
I nod, even though I don’t feel ready. I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready to face Calloway, the man who killed my mom. But I have no choice. This is the life I’m living now.
The courtroom is cold when we arrive, the air thick with the weight of the past. The seat beneath me is stiff, uncomfortable, as though it’s trying to remind me that I don’t belong here. I glance around the room, searching for any sign that this is all a mistake. But there’s no mistake. This is real. This is my life now.
The man who killed my mother is sitting across from me. His name is Calloway. He’s the one who ran that red light, the one who was drunk and reckless, the one who turned my life into a nightmare. His suit is wrinkled, his jaw unshaven. He doesn’t look sorry. He doesn’t even look like he cares.
I want him to look at me. I want him to see me, to see the daughter of the woman he took away from me. But he doesn’t. He just stares down at his hands, folding them nervously in his lap.
The lawyer calls my name. I stand up, my heart pounding in my chest, my legs trembling beneath me. The room tilts slightly as I walk to the stand, the eyes of the courtroom burning into me. My pulse hammers in my ears as I sit.
“Can you tell us what happened that night, Maeve?” my lawyer asks. His voice is soft, but his question feels like a weight on my chest.
I should say I don’t remember the impact. I should say that we were talking about stupid things—about boys and pizza, about rain and the sound of Mom’s laugh—until the headlights came too close, too fast.
But I don’t say that.
Instead, I take a shaky breath, trying to steady myself.
“We were on our way home. Then he hit us,” I say. My voice cracks, but I don’t look away from the table in front of me. I can’t. If I look at him, I might lose control.
The next question doesn’t come from my lawyer. It comes from the defense attorney, the one representing Calloway. Her voice is sharp, cutting through the air.
“Maeve, who was driving?”
I freeze. The question hangs in the air too long. Too much time to think. Too much time to realize the truth.
“Your mother, correct?” she presses, tilting her head slightly, as if she already knows the answer. As if she’s already won.
I don’t say anything. My mind is spinning, memories coming back too quickly. I glance at my father, and I can see the confusion on his face. I want to run. I want to disappear.
I nod.
“Yes,” I whisper. “She was driving.”
But the truth feels wrong. The memory is shifting, changing. The more I try to remember, the more the fog lifts.
I remember the keys. I remember holding them in my hand, the feeling of the steering wheel under my fingers. I remember Mom smiling at me as she handed me the keys.
“You dragged me out of the house to fetch you, Mae,” she had said. “So, you drive, kiddo. I’m tired.”
The words don’t match the image. The headlights, too close, too fast. I can see it now. I was driving. I was the one behind the wheel.
A cold sickness rises in my stomach, and I feel like I might throw up.
I glance at my father again, and I know that he sees the change in me. He sees the guilt creeping into my eyes. The truth is unraveling, and I don’t know what to do with it.
“I don’t know…” I whisper, barely audible. I don’t think anyone hears me. My voice is so small, so lost in the silence of the courtroom.
Part 5: The Truth
That night, I sit in my room, staring at the ceiling. The air feels thick, suffocating, as if the weight of everything is pressing down on me. But the memory won’t leave me. It won’t let go.
I see it now, so clearly, so vividly. The car. The rain. The keys in my hand. The moment when my mom smiled at me, handed me the keys, and said, “You drive, kiddo. I’m tired.”
It was me. I was the one driving. Not my mom.
I lie back, my eyes wide open, my mind racing with a thousand thoughts, but none of them make sense. My body feels heavy, like I’m drowning in the guilt of something I didn’t know. How could I have forgotten that? How could I have convinced myself that it was her driving?
The truth hits me like a brick. I don’t know how I missed it. I don’t know how the fog clouded my mind for so long. But now, now I see it clearly. It wasn’t just the rain. It wasn’t just the headlights coming too fast. It was me behind the wheel.
The weight of the truth crushes me. I curl into myself, burying my face in my knees, letting the sobs come. They’re violent, raw, the kind of sobs that shake your whole body, that make it hard to breathe. I wish I could take it all back. I wish I could go back to that moment and do everything differently.
But I can’t.
And then, a soft knock at the door pulls me out of my spiraling thoughts. My father’s voice, tentative and unsure, floats in from the other side.
“Maeve? Can we talk?”
I don’t answer. I don’t know if I can talk to him. I don’t know if I can look him in the eyes after what I’ve just realized.
The door opens slowly, and Thomas steps inside, his eyes scanning the room. He’s holding a glass of whiskey in his hand, but his gaze is soft, concerned.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to talk to you,” I finally manage to whisper. The words feel too heavy to say, but they’re the only words I have.
Thomas steps further into the room and sits at the edge of the bed. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches me, waiting for me to find my voice.
“I didn’t remember,” I say quietly, my voice thick with guilt. “It was me driving. I was the one behind the wheel. I thought… I thought it was my mom. I didn’t remember until today. I’ve been carrying that lie, and I don’t know how to make it stop.”
My father doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at me, his eyes filled with understanding, sadness, and something else that I can’t place.
He sets the glass down on the bedside table, his hands trembling slightly. “Maeve,” he says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “It wasn’t your fault.”
I shake my head, tears streaming down my face. “Yes, it was. It was my fault.”
“No,” he says firmly, his voice stronger now. “It wasn’t. You were just a kid, Maeve. You didn’t know. You didn’t remember. And I’m so sorry for all the years I wasn’t here to help you. But it wasn’t your fault. It never was.”
I look up at him, my eyes filled with confusion. “But I was driving, Dad. I should have seen it. I should have stopped. But I didn’t. And now she’s gone.”
My father reaches for me, his arms wrapping around me gently. I don’t pull away. I let him hold me, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself break.
“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m here, Maeve. I know I’ve let you down, but I’m not going anywhere now. I’m not going to let you carry this burden alone.”
I press my face into his chest, the tears coming harder now. I can feel the pain of everything that’s happened, the weight of the past few weeks, the guilt that’s been gnawing at me, and for the first time, I let myself grieve. I let myself cry for my mother, for the life we could have had, for the person I’ve lost—and for the person I could never be.
“I don’t know how to make it stop,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
“You don’t have to make it stop,” my father says quietly. “It’s okay to grieve, Maeve. It’s okay to feel everything you’re feeling. But you’re not alone in this. We’ll get through it together.”
I nod, my body shaking in his arms. He’s right. I don’t have to do this alone. But it doesn’t make it any easier. The truth hurts. It hurts more than I could have ever imagined.
And yet, somehow, in his arms, I feel a small spark of hope. Maybe, just maybe, we can rebuild this life. Maybe I can find a way to live with the truth. And maybe—just maybe—I can learn to forgive myself.
Part 6: Healing, Slowly
The days after my conversation with Thomas blur together. There’s a strange quiet that fills the house, a heaviness that no one speaks about but that everyone feels. The air is thick with unsaid words, with the weight of everything we’ve been through.
Julia doesn’t mention the trial. She doesn’t bring it up, and I’m almost thankful for that. She seems to sense that I need space, that I need time to breathe, to process everything that’s happened. But it doesn’t mean she’s any less present. Every morning, she’s there, quietly making breakfast, offering me smiles that I can’t always return, but I see them. I feel them.
And then, one morning, something unexpected happens. It’s a simple act, but it catches me off guard. I walk into the kitchen to find a plate of waffles sitting on the table, steam rising from them, the smell of syrup and butter filling the air. Real waffles. Not some healthy, organic alternative. Real, comforting, greasy waffles—the kind my mom would have made after a long, hard week.
I freeze at the doorway, staring at them. I don’t know what to say, don’t know what to feel. I glance over at Julia, who is sitting at the table, sipping her green tea, looking as calm and content as ever.
She shrugs when she sees my gaze. “I caved,” she says, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t tell the other vegans.”
For the first time in a long while, something stirs inside me. It’s small, but it’s there. A flicker of something… hope? Comfort? I don’t know what it is, but it makes me feel a little less broken.
I sit down at the table, and Julia doesn’t say anything else. She just watches me as I take the first bite of the waffle. The sweetness, the warmth—it’s almost too much. It brings back memories of my mom, of how we used to eat together, how she’d always insist on extra syrup even when I begged her not to.
A tear slips down my cheek, but I don’t wipe it away. Julia doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t ask. She just sips her tea, letting me have my moment.
And then, I smile. It’s small, but it’s real. Julia sees it, and for a second, I see the approval in her eyes. She doesn’t need to say anything. She doesn’t need to tell me that everything will be okay. Because in this moment, with this simple act of kindness, I feel a little less lost.
After breakfast, Julia says something that surprises me. “You need to do something,” she says, her voice soft but insistent. “Do something that’s going to make this house feel like home. Plant your mom’s favorite flowers so that you can see them and think of her.”
I nod, a quiet sense of peace washing over me. It’s a small thing, planting flowers, but somehow, it feels like the right thing to do. It feels like a step toward healing, a step toward making this house mine.
I go outside later that afternoon, standing in the small garden out back. The sun is warm on my skin, the air still cool with the promise of spring. I kneel down in the dirt, the earth cold under my hands, and start to dig. I think about the flowers my mom used to plant—carnations, bright and colorful, their petals soft and fragrant. I don’t know why I choose them. Maybe it’s because they remind me of her, of how she always took care of everything, no matter how messy life got.
I plant the carnations carefully, one by one, until the small garden is filled with vibrant colors. I take a step back, breathing in the smell of the flowers, and for the first time in a long time, I feel a connection to my mother. I feel like she’s still here, in some way, watching over me.
It’s a small act, but it feels like something big. A way of taking control, of making something beautiful out of the mess that’s been left behind.
Later that evening, I find myself sitting on the porch steps with Thomas. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of Julia’s lavender candles. I never used to like them, but after a few weeks of living here, I don’t mind them so much.
Thomas looks over at me, surprised to see me sitting beside him. “You okay?” he asks, his voice quiet, unsure.
I nod, though I don’t know if I am. “I’m trying,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “I want to start over, Dad. I want to try to be… I don’t know, normal. I want to be a part of this family.”
He looks at me, his eyes filled with something I don’t recognize. For the first time, I see the man he could have been—the man he’s trying to be. He reaches for me, and I don’t pull away. I let him hold me, let him pull me close, and for the first time in years, I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—I’m not alone in this.
“I’ve been awful,” I admit, the words tasting bitter as I say them. “I’ve been distant. I’ve been angry. And I haven’t been there for Duncan. I don’t even know him, Dad. I haven’t held him, I haven’t played with him. He deserves better.”
Thomas squeezes my shoulder, his grip firm but gentle. “You don’t have to be perfect, Maeve,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “Just be here. That’s all we need.”
I stare ahead, my fingers twisting in my lap, but I feel something shift inside me. Maybe it’s the beginning of forgiveness, maybe it’s just the first step in accepting the truth. But whatever it is, it feels like a step in the right direction.
“I want to paint a mural in Duncan’s room,” I say, the idea coming to me suddenly. “Something fun. Dinosaurs, maybe. And I’ll learn how to make vegan curry with Julia. I mean, I’ll hate it, but still.”
Thomas chuckles softly, and for the first time in a long while, I feel a lightness in my chest. He pulls me into a hug, and I let myself lean into him, feeling the comfort of his presence.
And for the first time, I believe that maybe, just maybe… this life won’t be so bad after all.
