I can’t clearly remember the crash.

But I do recall the rain—starting as a gentle drizzle, then growing heavier, tapping rhythmically against the windshield. I remember Mom’s laughter as I absentmindedly drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, talking about Nate, the boy two rows ahead of me in chemistry class.

Then the headlights appeared—too close, approaching too fast.

I screamed for my mother.

Suddenly, I was outside the car. My knees were soaked with mud, my hands dripping with blood that wasn’t mine.

Mom lay on the ground, her body twisted unnaturally, her eyes half-open and empty.

I shouted her name until my voice gave out. I shook her, but she didn’t respond.

Sirens pierced the night. Strangers pulled me aside. One voice mentioned a drunk driver. Another said, “The mother was behind the wheel.”

I tried to scream that it was me, but no sound came. The world spun, my stomach churned, and then…

Blackness.

When I woke, I was in a hospital bed. My head throbbed in a dull fog. A nurse hovered nearby. Machines beeped. Voices drifted in from the corridor.

My throat was parched. My limbs felt foreign. The door opened—I half-expected Mom to walk in and tell me it was a nightmare.

But instead, it was my father.

Thomas.

He looked older, unfamiliar. The last time I’d seen him… was Christmas, maybe two years ago.

He slipped a hesitant, rough hand into mine.

“Hey, kid,” he said softly.

That’s when I knew. I blinked back tears.

She’s really gone.

Two weeks later

I woke in a house that felt whatever the opposite of home is.

Julia hummed in the kitchen. The air smelled earthy-sweet. She placed a bowl before me—oatmeal, flaxseeds, blueberries.

“I added some hemp hearts,” she said like it was normal. “Hemp seeds are good for you, honey.”

As though Mom isn’t dead, and I wasn’t suddenly living in beige walls and a baby I barely knew.

I scooped up the spoon. Stared at the unappealing bowl. Then pushed it away.

Julia tucked a loose strand behind her ear.

“Not hungry?”

I couldn’t eat it, even though I was starving. I wanted greasy diner waffles. Midnight pancakes with Mom, sharing laughs over weird regulars at Sam’s.

I shook my head.

She slid a protein ball across. It looked like a peace offering. I didn’t touch it.

“Your dad will be back soon,” Julia began. “He’s gone to get diapers for—”

Before she could finish, I stood.

At Court

I stood in front of the mirror, surrounded by rejected clothes. Dress too formal. The dress is too childish. Dress too tightly.

What do you wear when you’re about to watch the man who killed your mother take the stand?

I selected a simple black blouse—the same type I wore the morning of the funeral. I remember feeling desperate, trying on every black thing I owned. Nothing fitted emotionally.

I closed my eyes, remembering my hands trembling as I buttoned a satin blouse. Mom would’ve told me it didn’t matter:

“They’re focused on your smile and your hair,” she’d say. But I was dressing for her.

Now I redid those shaky buttons.

I wanted justice. I needed it. But guilt whispered: You didn’t see him coming.

Breathing deeply, I pulled on my blazer, squared my shoulders, and walked out.

The courtroom was freezing. My seat is uncomfortable. Across from me sat Calloway—his suit rumpled, his jaw stubbled, eyes downcast. He didn’t seem remorseful.

Calloway, a drunk driver, previously had his license suspended and shouldn’t have been behind the wheel.

I wanted him to meet my eyes, to register what he’d done.

When they called my name, my throat seized. I steadied myself and took my seat.

“Can you tell us what happened that night, Maeve?” the lawyer asked.

I should’ve said I don’t remember the crash. I should’ve said Mom was driving and we were talking about boys, pizza, rain—until the headlights came barreling in.

Instead, I swallowed hard.

“We were heading home…and then he hit us,” I managed.

But it was Calloway’s attorney who asked the next question, with a sharpened edge:

“Maeve, who was driving? Your mother, correct?”

I froze. The pause stretched too long.

I nodded. Then something inside me shifted.

A memory surfaced—a lucid flash. My brain fog seemed to be clearing.

I saw the keys in my hand. The feel of the wheel beneath my fingers. The headlights.

My heart nearly stopped.

“No…” I thought.

The memory returned. Everything blurred, then snapped into focus.

I looked at Dad—his forehead creased, confusion flickering.

“I don’t know,” I whispered. My voice is barely there.

The Truth

My room was dark, and the air suffocating. The memory wouldn’t let me be.

Mom passing me the keys—“You dragged me out to get you, Maeve,” she’d teased. “You drive, kiddo. I’m tired.”

The leather grip under my hands. Our laughter. The rain is picking up.

And then the headlights. Too fast.

I felt sick. Cold. I might be sick.

I found my father in the living room. He sat on the couch with a drink in hand.

“I need to tell you something,” I said.

He looked up, face weary.

“What’s up?”

I strained into a chair, words lodged in my throat.

“I was driving.”

His face froze.

“She let me take the wheel, Dad… We were talking… Then the rain… I didn’t see him until it was too late.”

I broke. He didn’t yell. He didn’t shout. He simply reached for me and let me collapse into his arms.

“I’m so sorry,” I sobbed.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he murmured, voice thick. “It wasn’t your fault.”

I wanted to believe him. I clung to him as he urged me to rest.

Later, I overheard him and Julia whispering in the kitchen.

“She was driving,” he said. “Maeve asked Mom to pick her up. Mom gave her the keys…”

“I love her,” he continued, “but she’s not mine. I wasn’t there for her.”

It stung worse than the crash.

A Letter

I dreaded going back to court. But first, that weekend, I buried myself in Mom’s things. Inside her green velvet trunk, I found a letter.

Her handwriting—looped and delicate—hurt to read. She wrote:

Thomas,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. Maybe I’m tired. But Maeve is almost sixteen—you have time. I wonder: are you ready to be her father like she needs? – Mara

The ink was smudged, as though she’d paused mid‑thought. She had her doubts. Maybe I could, too.

If she could doubt, then maybe there was room for me to believe Dad could step up.

Verdict & Healing

Calloway took a plea deal. Confession, but reduced time. It didn’t feel like justice, but I stood before Mom’s portrait and whispered:

“I’m so sorry, Mom. I love you. I miss you.”

Slowly, something inside me shifted.