The crash took my mother’s life and left me with a past I couldn’t outrun. At seventeen, I found myself in a house that wasn’t mine, with a father I barely knew, a stepmother who tried too hard, and a baby brother I refused to acknowledge. I had a choice: keep running from the truth or face it and figure out where I belonged.
I don’t remember the impact, not exactly.
I remember the rain, soft at first, then pounding against the windshield. I remember my mother laughing, her voice warm as I told her about Nate, the boy who sat in front of me in chemistry. My fingers tapped absently on the steering wheel.
She glanced at me, smirking.
“He sounds like trouble, Maeve.”
Then, headlights. Too close. Too fast.
The next thing I knew, I was outside the car, my knees sinking into the mud, my hands covered in blood that wasn’t mine.
My mother lay on the pavement, twisted, her eyes half-open, unfocused. I screamed for her, my voice raw and useless. I shook her, begged her to wake up. She didn’t.
Then came the sirens.
Hands pulled me away. A voice muttered something about a drunk driver. Another voice said, “The mother was driving.”
I gasped, trying to tell them the truth—that it was me behind the wheel—but the words wouldn’t come. The world blurred, my stomach twisted, and everything went black.
I woke up in a hospital bed, my head heavy, my body aching. Machines beeped beside me. A nurse murmured something I didn’t catch.
For a second, I expected my mom to walk through the door. Maybe it had all been a dream.
But then, my father stepped in.
Thomas.
He looked older than I remembered, his face lined with something that hadn’t been there before. The last time I had seen him was two years ago, maybe three. He hesitated before placing a rough, unfamiliar hand over mine.
“Hey, kid,” he said.
And in that moment, I knew. This wasn’t a dream. My mother was gone.
Two weeks later, I woke up in a house that didn’t feel like home.
Julia hummed in the kitchen, the scent of something sweet and earthy filling the air. She set a bowl in front of me.
Oatmeal. Blueberries. Flaxseeds.
“I added some hemp hearts,” she said like this was normal, like my whole world hadn’t been ripped apart.
I stared at the bowl, then at her.
“Not hungry, love?”
I was. But I didn’t want this. I wanted greasy waffles from Sam’s Diner. I wanted to sit in a booth with my mom, splitting pancakes at midnight, laughing at the guy who always fell asleep in the same spot.
Instead, I pushed the bowl away.
Julia hesitated, then offered me a homemade protein ball. Another olive branch. I didn’t take it.
“Maeve,” she sighed. “Your dad will be back soon. He went to get diapers for—”
I got up before she could finish. I didn’t want to hear about my half-brother. I didn’t want to be here at all.
Later, I stood in front of my mirror, picking through clothes. What do you wear when the man who killed your mother is on trial?
The first dress was too formal. The second too childish. The third too tight, too wrong.
I settled on a black blouse, the same one I wore to her funeral. My fingers trembled as I buttoned it.
I wanted justice. I wanted Calloway to pay. But deep inside, something whispered—I didn’t see him in time.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Took a deep breath.
Justice first. Guilt later.
The courtroom was cold, the seat stiff beneath me. Calloway sat across the room, staring at his hands. His suit was wrinkled, his face unshaven. He didn’t look sorry.
The lawyer called my name. My pulse pounded as I stepped forward.
“Can you tell us what happened that night, Maeve?”
I should have said I didn’t remember the crash. That we were talking about boys and pizza and the rain. That the headlights came out of nowhere.
Instead, I swallowed and whispered, “We were on our way home. Then he hit us.”
His lawyer spoke next. A sharp voice, cutting through the air.
“Maeve, who was driving?”
Silence.
Then, slowly, I nodded.
“Your mother, correct?”
The memory surfaced like a nightmare unraveling.
The keys in my hand. The steering wheel beneath my fingers. The rain, the headlights.
I was driving.
Oh my God.
My father’s forehead creased as he watched me. My breath hitched. I wanted to run. To disappear.
“I don’t know,” I whispered.
That night, I sat in my room, staring at the ceiling, the truth clawing at my throat.
I saw it all, clearer than ever.
Mom handing me the keys. “You dragged me out to pick you up, Mae. You drive.”
The warmth of the leather wheel. The laughter. The rain.
The headlights.
I found my father in the living room. He looked up, weary.
“I need to tell you something,” I said. My voice felt like a stranger’s.
He nodded. “What’s up, Maeve?”
I sat across from him. My hands shook.
“I was driving.”
His face didn’t change. No anger. No shock. Just tired acceptance.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
“She let me take the wheel. She was tired. I asked her to pick me up, and she gave me the keys. I didn’t see him, Dad. I swear, I didn’t see him.”
Tears burned my eyes. My father set down his glass and reached for me.
And I broke.
The sobs wracked through me, unstoppable. He held me, and for the first time in years, I let him.
“It wasn’t your fault, Maeve,” he murmured.
I wanted to believe him.
Later that night, I heard him talking to Julia.
“She told me, Jules. She was driving.”
Silence.
“She asked Mara to pick her up. If she hadn’t… If Mara had just driven them home…”
He didn’t finish.
I clenched the banister, my stomach twisting.
He loved me. But love didn’t erase absence.
The next day, I found a letter in my mother’s old trunk.
Thomas,
She’s brilliant. Stubborn. Messy. Alive.
Are you ready? Could you be the father she needs?
I don’t know. But she still has time. Maybe, if you try, she’ll let you in.
—Mara
My breath caught.
She had doubts. She wasn’t sure.
And if she had doubts… maybe I could, too. Maybe my father could still be the father I needed.
Calloway took a plea deal. Less time, but a full confession. It didn’t feel like justice.
That night, I stood in front of my mother’s picture.
“I’m so sorry, Mom,” I whispered. “I love you. I miss you.”
And for the first time since the crash, I felt like she heard me.
The next morning, there were waffles on the table. Real ones. Butter, syrup, everything.
Julia shrugged. “I caved. Don’t tell the other vegans.”
Something tugged at my lips—a smile. Small, but real.
I picked up my fork.
Maybe, just maybe, this house could start to feel like home.
