I don’t remember the impact. Not really.
What I remember, though, are the details that feel so vivid: the sound of the rain, light at first, then harder against the windshield. My fingers tapping absently against the steering wheel as I told my mom about Nate—the boy who sat two seats ahead of me in chemistry class. His messy hair, his laugh, the way he seemed to never care about anything.
Mom’s smile in the rearview mirror, the kind that always came when I was excited or nervous. She glanced over at me, and her voice, full of playful sarcasm, floated through the air.
“He sounds like trouble, Maeve,” she smirked.
I was about to respond when the headlights appeared. Too close. Too fast.
The screech of tires and the blinding flash of light was all I saw before the world went dark.
The next thing I remember is screaming for my mother, my voice ragged and desperate.
I don’t remember how I got outside the car, but somehow, I was there—my knees soaked in mud, my hands covered in blood. The blood wasn’t mine, but the sensation of it felt like it was soaking into my skin.
And then I saw her.
Mom was lying there, on the pavement. Her body twisted in a way that wasn’t right, her eyes half-open, staring at nothing. Her skin had already started to pale. I screamed her name over and over until my throat burned.
I tried to shake her awake, but she wouldn’t move.
And then, the sirens came.
I don’t remember much after that. The hands that pulled me away from her, the murmured voices saying something about a drunk driver, and then… nothing.
I wake up in a hospital bed. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, a dull, aching fog filling my skull. There’s a nurse nearby, her soft footsteps echoing in the quiet. Machines beep steadily, filling the otherwise silent room with their rhythmic sound.
For a moment, I think I’ve dreamed it all. That maybe I’m still in the car, and this is all just some horrible nightmare.
But when the door opens, and I see him standing in the doorway, I realize it’s real.
My father.
“Thomas,” I whisper, the name tasting foreign in my mouth. The last time I saw him, I was… twelve? Two years ago, maybe?
He’s older than I remember. His face is harder now, his features weathered by time and absence.
“Hey, kid,” he says, his voice rough. He sits beside me, his hand on mine, but it feels strange—so unfamiliar.
The weight of it hits me all at once.
She’s really gone.
Two weeks later, I wake up in a house that doesn’t feel like mine.
The kitchen smells strange—earthy, almost sweet. Julia, my stepmother, is humming to herself as she sets a bowl of oatmeal in front of me. It’s topped with flaxseeds and blueberries, and she’s somehow managed to sneak in hemp hearts, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Good for you,” she says brightly. “Hemp seeds are packed with protein.”
I stare at the bowl, then back at her, trying to understand why everything feels so wrong.
I’m sitting at a table that isn’t mine. In a house that isn’t mine. Eating food that isn’t my mother’s.
I want to scream. I want to tell her to stop pretending like everything is fine.
Instead, I set the spoon down without touching it.
Julia watches me quietly, as if she’s waiting for me to react, to do something, but I can’t. I can’t pretend to be okay. Not here, not now.
“Not hungry, love?” she asks, her voice gentle but persistent.
I wish I could say yes, that everything would be fine. But it’s not. I miss my mother. I miss the way things used to be. The familiarity of our old life.
I want greasy diner waffles, not this. I want to sit in Sam’s Diner, laughing with my mom over pancakes at midnight. Not this…
“Fine,” I mutter, standing up suddenly. “I’ll be back later.”
Courtroom
I stand in front of the mirror, the pile of clothes on the bed surrounding me. I try on one dress, but it’s too formal. The next one makes me look like a child. The third one is too tight, too wrong.
What do you wear to watch the man who killed your mother sit on trial?
I settle on a simple black blouse, something neutral. Something that feels like I’m mourning.
The morning of the funeral, I remember staring at my reflection, tears staining my face, struggling to find something to wear. I couldn’t think straight. Everything felt like it had fallen apart.
That day, I chose a satin blouse, thinking about my mom’s words, “Don’t worry, Maeve. They’ll be too busy looking at that beautiful smile on your face.” But today, there’s no smile. There’s no comfort.
I button up the blouse, my hands trembling just as they did then.
It’s time. Time to face the man who took my mother from me.
The courtroom is cold. The chair beneath me is stiff, and I feel like I’m going to fall into the space between reality and nightmare. I can’t take my eyes off Calloway, the man who killed my mother. His suit is wrinkled. He hasn’t shaved. His demeanor is far from apologetic.
Calloway—he’s drunk, and he shouldn’t have been driving. He had lost his license before, and yet, there he was, sitting in front of me, so indifferent to the pain he caused.
I want him to see me. I want him to understand the devastation he’s caused. But he doesn’t even look at me. He doesn’t even care.
The lawyer calls my name.
My heart pounds, my throat tightens as I stand. The room seems to tilt slightly as I walk forward, my pulse hammering in my ears.
“Can you tell us what happened that night, Maeve?” the lawyer asks.
I should tell them I don’t remember the impact. I should say that we were talking about the rain, about boys, and the headlights that came out of nowhere.
Instead, I swallow back my emotions and speak, the words sharp and hard.
“We were on our way home,” I say. “Then he hit us.”
The silence that follows feels unbearable. But then, from across the room, Calloway’s lawyer speaks.
“Maeve, who was driving?”
The question hangs in the air, heavy with intent.
I freeze. The memory floods back to me. Mom handed me the keys. She was tired, and I had begged her to drive me. The rain had been coming down harder by the minute. I hadn’t seen the headlights.
“Your mother, correct?” The lawyer tilts her head, watching me closely.
I nod, but something shifts in me. The memory isn’t right. It wasn’t her. It was me. I was driving.
The Burden of Truth
The moment the words left my lips—“Your mother, correct?”—the weight of them hung in the air like a thick fog. I wanted to scream that they were wrong, that the memory I had didn’t line up with what they were saying. But I couldn’t. It was like my voice had been stolen, leaving me frozen in place, trapped in the courtroom, under the harsh gaze of strangers who didn’t know me, didn’t know what it felt like to be me.
It felt like the room was spinning, the walls pressing in, the floor threatening to give way beneath me. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight. I could only remember the flash of headlights and the way my mother had handed me the keys, saying she was tired, telling me to drive. She was always the one to drive, to take care of everything. But that night, she hadn’t. I had taken the wheel.
I didn’t even know how to process it. The truth felt like a foreign language, something I wasn’t equipped to understand. And as I stood there, in front of everyone, I felt like I was being torn apart. This wasn’t just about Calloway, the drunk driver. This was about me. My choices. The guilt that was slowly poisoning me from the inside out.
“Maeve?” The lawyer’s voice brought me back to reality. “Did your mother give you the keys that night?”
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, thudding against the silence. The memory was coming back, clearer now, but the clarity felt like it was suffocating me. It wasn’t the way I had thought it happened. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
“I… I don’t know,” I whispered, barely audible. “I don’t remember.”
The words felt like poison as they left my mouth. I didn’t know if I was lying to them, lying to myself, or just too afraid to admit the truth. The truth that I had been the one driving. That I had made the decision, even if it was out of naivety or foolishness. I had been the one behind the wheel, and I had been the one to face the consequences of my actions.
The courtroom fell into an uncomfortable silence. I could feel the eyes on me, the weight of their judgment, the sharpness of their scrutiny. They were all waiting for me to speak, to give them the answers they were looking for. But I couldn’t.
My father was sitting behind me. I could feel his presence, but it felt like we were miles apart. I wasn’t ready to face him, to confront the shame and guilt that had already settled between us. He had been distant, a stranger to me for years. And now, here we were, both standing at the crossroads of a past I didn’t understand and a future that felt impossibly uncertain.
That night, I stayed in my room, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts racing. The house felt too quiet. Too empty. I wasn’t ready to face the truth, not yet. The more I thought about it, the more my chest tightened. The guilt—the crushing weight of it—was unbearable. I had killed my mother. I had taken the wheel.
I couldn’t shake the image of her face, her smile, her voice. I couldn’t stop thinking about the moment when she handed me the keys. She had trusted me. And now she was gone, and I was left to carry the burden of something I wasn’t sure I could handle.
The sound of a knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not tonight. But I knew it was my father, so I reluctantly got up and opened the door.
He was standing there, his eyes tired, his face filled with a mixture of sadness and concern. He didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, waiting for me to speak.
I looked away, my eyes stinging with tears. “I don’t know what to do anymore,” I whispered.
My father stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “I know, Maeve,” he said softly. “I know. But you can’t keep carrying this alone. You don’t have to.”
I shook my head, a tear slipping down my cheek. “But I was the one driving, Dad. I was the one who made the decision. If I hadn’t…”
“No,” my father interrupted gently, sitting beside me. “You were not the one who killed your mother, Maeve. You need to understand that. It was an accident. A terrible, tragic accident. But it wasn’t your fault.”
I stared at him, unable to speak. His words were kind, but they didn’t ease the guilt that was suffocating me. I didn’t know how to move past it. I didn’t know how to forgive myself.
“I can’t,” I said, my voice breaking. “I can’t forgive myself for this.”
My father reached out and placed a hand on mine, squeezing it gently. “You don’t have to forgive yourself overnight, Maeve. But you have to understand, this wasn’t your fault. You didn’t want any of this to happen. You loved your mother more than anything, and she loved you.”
“I miss her,” I said quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I know,” he replied softly, pulling me into a hug. “I miss her too. But we’re still here, Maeve. And we’ll get through this together.”
The following days were a blur of emotions. I attended the trial, sitting silently as Calloway’s lawyer spoke in his defense. He wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t remorseful. And the more I heard, the more I felt my anger rise. The man who had caused my mother’s death wasn’t even acknowledging the gravity of his actions.
But at the same time, I knew I couldn’t keep living in this emotional whirlwind. I had to find a way to move forward, to heal. I had to forgive myself, even if it didn’t come easy.
And it didn’t come easily.
That weekend, I went through my mother’s belongings. Her jewelry, her clothes, her photographs. The familiar weight of her things made me feel closer to her, but it also made the loss that much more painful.
I found the letter she had written to my father, the one she had never given him. It was so much like her—hopeful, yet filled with uncertainty. As I read it, the pain of her absence hit me again, but it also made me realize something.
I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t carrying this burden by myself. My father might not have been the perfect parent, but he was trying. And Julia, as much as she was strange and unfamiliar, was trying too. Duncan, the baby I barely knew, was a reminder of my mother’s love—a love that wasn’t gone, but had been passed on to me, to this new life I was slowly learning to accept.
By the time the trial came to a close, Calloway had accepted a plea deal. Less prison time, but a full admission of guilt. It didn’t feel like justice. It didn’t feel like anything.
But as I stood in front of my mother’s portrait that night, I whispered the words I had never said aloud:
“I’m so sorry, Mom. I love you. I miss you.”
For the first time since the crash, I felt like she heard me.
Taking Steps Forward
The days after the trial were a strange blur. The house had quieted down after the chaos of the court proceedings, and yet, it felt like the noise inside my head hadn’t stopped. The guilt was still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, refusing to let me rest. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face—my mother—smiling at me from the past, so vibrant, so full of life. And then I would remember she was gone, and I was left with this weight I couldn’t escape.
I couldn’t escape the truth either. The crash, the memories of my mother handing me the keys, the rain, and the headlights—all of it had come rushing back, but no matter how many times I replayed the events, the pain never dulled.
But slowly, and with each passing day, the edges of my grief began to soften. I still felt like a stranger in this house, but the tension that had been building between my father and me was starting to ease. Julia had been trying, too—trying to make me feel at home, even though everything in this house felt so unfamiliar.
That weekend, I finally agreed to spend some time with her. The whole “vegan” thing had never interested me before, but when she mentioned making curry, I felt a reluctant pull toward the idea. I figured, what was the harm? I needed something to distract myself, something to stop my mind from running constantly in circles.
Julia and I stood in the kitchen, chopping vegetables together. It was awkward at first, like we were two strangers in a place neither of us truly belonged. But after a few minutes, the tension seemed to ease. We started talking, and for the first time, I didn’t feel like I was trying to force a smile or pretend to be okay.
“Do you know how to make curry, Maeve?” Julia asked, glancing at me as she chopped a carrot.
“I’ve watched my mom do it a thousand times,” I replied, my voice sounding more confident than I felt. “But I’ve never actually made it myself.”
“Well, today’s the day then,” Julia said, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “It’s easy, trust me.”
We worked in silence for a few moments, the rhythm of chopping and stirring almost therapeutic. It wasn’t as easy as she made it look, but I found myself enjoying the process, if only because it was something I could focus on without feeling overwhelmed by grief.
When the curry was finally finished, Julia served it with a flourish, setting the bowl down in front of me.
“Here you go, Maeve. Enjoy.”
I took a bite, expecting to grimace at the unfamiliar taste, but to my surprise, it was good. Really good.
“This is… actually good,” I said, my eyebrows raised in surprise.
Julia chuckled softly, her eyes lighting up. “I told you. It just takes a little practice.”
And for the first time since I’d arrived in this house, I felt a flicker of warmth. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Maybe, in time, I could find my place here.
The next day, I found myself in the backyard, sitting on the grass, staring at the garden my mother had once tended to with so much care. The flowers were mostly gone, replaced by weeds and overgrown grass, but I still recognized the shape of the garden—the way she had organized the plants, the colors, the life she had put into it. It had always been her sanctuary, her little piece of peace in the chaos of our lives.
Sitting there, I felt the pull of the past, the longing to turn back time and undo everything that had happened. But I couldn’t. I could only move forward.
I thought about what Julia had said, about planting flowers to make the house feel more like home. Maybe she was right. Maybe, by doing something for myself, I could start to feel like I belonged in this strange new life I was living.
The following day, I found myself walking through the aisles of a local nursery. The bright colors of the flowers seemed to pull me in, each bloom a little reminder of the life I had lost. I carefully picked out a few of my mother’s favorite flowers—roses, lavender, and carnations. As I paid for them and packed them into the trunk of the car, I felt a sense of purpose settle inside me. This small act, this little bit of life I was bringing into the house, felt like a first step toward healing.
When I returned, I went straight to the backyard and began planting. The dirt felt cool and soothing between my fingers, grounding me in a way that nothing else had. As I worked, I thought about my mother. I thought about the times she had taught me to garden, about how patient she had been with me, even when I wasn’t paying attention.
Tears prickled in my eyes as I planted the last flower, but this time, they weren’t tears of pain. They were tears of remembrance, of gratitude for the woman who had given me everything, even if I hadn’t fully appreciated it at the time.
When I finished, I stood back and looked at the flowers, the colorful blooms now lining the edge of the garden. It was a small, but meaningful gesture. It was my way of honoring my mother, of bringing some of her into this new life.
Later that evening, I found myself sitting outside, watching the stars appear one by one. Julia joined me, holding a cup of tea in her hands. We sat in silence for a few moments, the night air cool against my skin.
“I think you’re starting to find your way here, Maeve,” she said quietly, her voice gentle.
I nodded, though the words felt foreign to me. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to call this place home, but I was starting to understand that home wasn’t just a house. It was the people, the moments, the effort to create something new, even when it felt impossible.
“Maybe,” I said softly, finally allowing myself to believe it. “Maybe this could be home.”
The days that followed were full of small steps—more time spent with Julia, helping with the baby, even talking to my father about the things that had been left unsaid for years. The distance between us was still there, but it felt like it was starting to close, little by little.
Then, it was time for me to face the courthouse again. The trial was over, but the weight of what had happened still lingered. Calloway’s plea deal had been accepted, and though it was a small victory, it didn’t feel like justice. It didn’t feel like anything. But as I stood in front of my mother’s portrait, I whispered the words I had never had the chance to say.
“I’m so sorry, Mom. I love you. I miss you.”
For the first time since the crash, I felt like she heard me. Maybe she was still with me in some way, guiding me, helping me find my way forward.
The following morning, I woke to find a plate of real waffles on the table. Julia, in all her strange optimism, had finally caved. As I looked at the waffles, I couldn’t help but smile, a small, genuine smile that felt like a victory.
“You need to do something,” Julia said, as if reading my mind. “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 nodded slowly, the weight of her words sinking in. Maybe, just maybe, this house could start to feel like home.
But first, I had to speak to my father. I needed to clear the air, to start fresh.
When I found him outside, sitting on the porch steps, I sat beside him. For the first time in a long while, I felt like we were both ready to face what had been left unsaid.
“I want to start over,” I said quietly, the words thick with everything I had been carrying for so long.
He looked at me, his expression softening. “I’ve been awful,” I admitted. “But I’m going to do better. For you. For Duncan. For me.”
He nodded, his hand resting on mine. “I’m here, Maeve. I always will be.”
And for the first time in a long time, I believed him.
Rebuilding and Finding Peace
The days that followed my quiet confession to my father were full of small but significant moments. We didn’t suddenly become this perfect family—he wasn’t magically the father I’d always wanted, and I certainly wasn’t the daughter I’d once hoped to be. But something shifted between us. There was a softening, a willingness to try, to reach out even when we didn’t know how.
We had dinner together that night, the three of us—me, my father, and Julia. The baby, Duncan, was asleep in his crib, the soft, rhythmic sound of his breathing filling the silence in a way that I almost didn’t mind. Julia sat at the table, asking questions about my day, about what I wanted to do, as if I could still be the girl who once sat in my old home, talking about dreams and plans for the future.
It felt strange, but it felt right. There was a connection that had been absent for so long, and though I wasn’t sure what it meant, I knew it was something important. The pieces were coming together in unexpected ways.
I spent the next few days going through my mother’s things—sorting through boxes, photos, letters. Everything felt so heavy in my hands, the weight of her absence pressing down on me with every step I took. The letters I found in the trunk, the ones she had written for my father, seemed to hold so much meaning now. They were full of hope, and love, and a desire for something more, something better for all of us.
One of the letters she had written was so full of doubt, and I could feel her hesitation as I read her words. She had written about the difficulty of raising me, about wondering if Thomas would ever be the father I needed him to be. She had written about me, about how I was brilliant but stubborn, messy, and alive. She had written it almost like she was speaking to him, but also to herself—wondering if I would ever let him in.
That was the moment I realized that maybe, just maybe, she had been right. There was time. Time to rebuild. Time to let go of the past and give myself, and my father, the chance to move forward.
But it wasn’t just about him. It was about me, too. I had to figure out how to heal, how to start over in this house that didn’t feel like home, with people who weren’t quite family yet.
Julia came to me one morning, her hands full of seeds, and a little gardening tool bag slung over her shoulder. “You’ve got those flowers in the backyard now, Maeve,” she said. “But you know, planting a garden is more than just planting flowers. It’s about making something grow.”
I raised an eyebrow at her, slightly confused. She had this optimism that I didn’t quite get, but part of me found it comforting.
“I’m not much of a gardener,” I said, a half-smile tugging at my lips.
“Neither am I,” she replied, chuckling. “But I’m trying. And it’s good for the soul. Plus, it’s nice to get your hands dirty, right? Kind of like… starting fresh.”
I hadn’t expected the suggestion, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn’t such a bad idea. I didn’t need to grow a garden like my mother had. I didn’t need to replicate anything. But I needed something to make this house feel like it wasn’t just a place I was living, a temporary holding spot. I needed to create something new.
“Okay,” I said, glancing out at the backyard. The soil there wasn’t great, but it was something. “I’m in. Let’s do it.”
We spent the afternoon outside, digging in the soil, planting new flowers, and trying our best to make the garden something we could both be proud of. As I worked, I realized I was doing more than just planting flowers. I was planting roots. The act of it, of putting something into the earth, felt like a metaphor for what I was trying to do in my life.
I wasn’t going to leave this place. I wasn’t going to let the past define me anymore. The garden wasn’t about my mother. It was about me finding peace, about starting over.
Days turned into weeks, and slowly but surely, I began to find my place in this house. It didn’t happen all at once. There were moments when I wanted to give up, when the grief would hit me like a wave, dragging me under. But there were also moments of calm, moments when the air felt lighter, when I would catch myself smiling at something Duncan did or laughing at something Julia said.
Even my father started to open up more, his walls coming down in small, cautious increments. I would catch him watching me, his expression unreadable, like he was trying to figure out how to be a father to me. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress.
One evening, as I was sitting in the living room reading, my father came over to me. He looked hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should say anything, but when he spoke, his voice was quiet and serious.
“I’ve been thinking,” he started. “I know I haven’t been there for you, Maeve. And I know I can’t make up for lost time, but… I’m here now. I’m trying.”
I looked up at him, the words hanging in the air, and something inside me softened.
“You don’t have to be perfect, Dad,” I said quietly. “You’re here now. That’s enough.”
He nodded, his eyes slightly misty. For the first time in a long while, we were able to be honest with each other. It didn’t fix everything, but it was a start.
The weeks passed, and the garden grew. So did the house, in its own way. Julia kept making her healthy meals, and I kept working through my grief, one small step at a time. I’d go to the courthouse for the final hearing, listen as Calloway was sentenced for what he had done, but none of it felt like justice. It didn’t feel like closure. It just felt like the end of a chapter I hadn’t wanted to write.
But that night, I found myself standing in front of my mother’s portrait once again, and for the first time since the accident, I felt like I could breathe. She might not have been here anymore, but she had given me everything I needed to keep going. She had prepared me, even in ways I didn’t fully understand at the time. And now, I could find my own way, one step at a time.
Julia surprised me that morning with a plate of waffles—real waffles, not the protein balls she usually made—and the simple act of it made me smile. It wasn’t just the waffles, though. It was the fact that she cared enough to bring me something that felt normal. For the first time in a long while, I allowed myself to enjoy it.
“You know,” she said, smiling at me from across the table, “sometimes the smallest things can make the biggest difference.”
I nodded, picking up my fork. “I’m starting to realize that.”
It was the smallest things that started to change everything. The garden, the waffles, the quiet conversations with my father. They weren’t big gestures, but they were enough. They were the things that made this house feel like it could one day be home.
And for the first time since the crash, I allowed myself to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could find peace here.
Embracing Change
The weeks after the trial felt like a slow, painful recovery. The guilt of that night—of driving, of everything that had happened—still clung to me, but there was a difference now. It wasn’t as suffocating. It wasn’t as all-consuming. Slowly, bit by bit, I was learning to breathe again.
I spent more time with Duncan, trying to connect with him, even though it felt foreign. He wasn’t a stranger, but the way I’d been avoiding him, the way I’d been distant from everyone, made it hard to find my place in his tiny world. But there were moments—small moments—that made it feel real. When he giggled as I made silly faces, when his tiny hand curled around my finger, I began to understand. I began to see what my mother had seen in him. He was a reminder that life could go on, that there was still joy to be found in the world.
I didn’t want to be the person I had been before. I didn’t want to be the girl who lived in grief and guilt, always looking back at what was lost. I wanted to move forward, even if it meant crawling, even if it meant starting from scratch.
One afternoon, Julia asked me to help her in the kitchen again. I had never been particularly interested in cooking, but today, something shifted in me. I wanted to contribute. I wanted to be a part of this, to create something instead of just letting it happen around me.
“Hey, Maeve, do you want to try making curry again?” she asked, grinning as she chopped vegetables. “I promise it’ll be better than the last time.”
I laughed, feeling a genuine smile spread across my face. “I think I might need a few lessons first.”
Julia handed me a knife and a cutting board, showing me how to chop the vegetables just right. We worked in companionable silence, our movements easy as we prepared the meal together. There was no tension, no awkwardness. Just the steady rhythm of cooking, the sound of the knife on the board, the sizzling of onions in the pan.
As we worked, Julia glanced over at me and asked, “How are you doing, Maeve? Really?”
I paused for a moment, surprised by the question. I didn’t know how to answer. I didn’t want to admit how much I was still struggling. How much it still hurt.
“I’m… getting there,” I said carefully, my voice quieter than I intended. “It’s not easy. But I’m trying.”
Julia nodded, her expression soft. “I know it’s been hard. But I’m proud of you. You’ve come a long way since the accident.”
I couldn’t help but feel a lump form in my throat. For the first time in a long time, I felt seen. Not as the grieving daughter, the broken person who had lost her mother, but as Maeve. Just Maeve.
“I don’t think I would’ve made it without you,” I said, my voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for… being here. For everything.”
Julia smiled warmly, her eyes kind. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m here because I care about you. And you’re stronger than you realize.”
Later that evening, my father and I sat on the porch, watching the sun dip below the horizon. The house felt different now, the garden I had planted with Julia beginning to bloom, the house no longer a place I was just passing through. I wasn’t sure if it would ever fully feel like home, but it was getting there.
“You’ve been doing well, Maeve,” my father said, his voice quieter than usual. “I’m proud of you.”
I turned to look at him, surprised by his words. It wasn’t something he said often, but there was a sincerity in his tone that made something inside me soften. “Thanks, Dad.”
There was a long pause, as if my father was trying to find the right words. Then, finally, he spoke again. “I know things haven’t been easy. And I haven’t always been there for you. But I’m trying, Maeve. I’m trying to be the father you need.”
His words hit me harder than I expected. I had spent so much time focusing on my own pain, my own loss, that I hadn’t really considered how he had been affected by all of this. He had lost Mara too, and he had never really been the kind of father I needed him to be. But now, as I looked at him, I realized he was trying. And maybe that was enough.
“I know, Dad,” I said softly. “I know you’re trying. I can see it now.”
There was a moment of silence between us, comfortable and familiar, before he added, “I want to make things right, Maeve. I don’t want to just be here. I want to be your father.”
And in that moment, I realized that maybe we could start over. Maybe we could rebuild the relationship we never had. It wasn’t going to happen overnight, but it could happen.
The next few weeks passed in a haze of small victories. I started to open up more to my father, letting him into parts of my life I had kept closed off. Julia and I continued to bond over cooking and gardening, each small interaction helping me feel like I was a part of something again.
One afternoon, I found myself sitting on the porch with my father, looking out at the garden. The flowers we had planted together were starting to bloom, their vibrant colors a symbol of the growth that was happening inside me.
“I think I want to stay here, Dad,” I said suddenly, my voice steady. “I don’t know if it’ll ever feel completely like home, but I’m starting to think it could be.”
My father looked at me, his expression softening. “I’d like that, Maeve. I really would.”
For the first time since the accident, I felt like I was finally taking control of my life. I wasn’t running from the past anymore. I wasn’t hiding from the pain. I was accepting it, acknowledging it, and learning to move forward.
And though I would always miss my mother, I knew that this was where I was meant to be. Not because it was easy, not because everything was perfect, but because it was real. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.
