I don’t remember the crash. Not really.
I remember rain tapping the windshield, my mom’s laugh, and telling her about Nate from chemistry.
She teased me.
“He sounds like trouble, Maeve.”
Then headlights—too fast, too close.
The next thing I remember is screaming for her.
She lay on the pavement, twisted, unblinking. I begged her to wake up.
Sirens.
Hands pulling me away.
A voice said drunk driver. Another said the mother was driving.
I tried to speak, to say it was me, but I blacked out.
I woke up in a hospital bed.
For a moment, I thought maybe it was all a nightmare.
Then my dad walked in.
And I knew.
She was gone.
Two weeks later, I was living with him and Julia.
I couldn’t eat her oatmeal. I wanted greasy waffles at midnight with Mom.
At the trial, I dressed in black. I wanted justice for her.
But then Calloway’s lawyer asked,
“Who was driving?”
I froze. Nodded. “My mother,” I whispered.
But later, the truth hit me like cold water: It was me.
She gave me the keys. She was tired. I asked for the ride.
I told my father.
He didn’t yell. He just held me as I broke.
“It wasn’t your fault, Maeve,” he said.
I wanted to believe him.
But later, I overheard him say,
“She was driving. If Mara had just driven them home…”
And,
“She’s a stranger to me.”
It hurt worse than any wound.
Then I found a letter.
Mom had written it to Dad:
“Maeve is brilliant… maybe if you try, she’ll let you in.”
She had doubts, too. That made room for mine.
Calloway took a plea. It didn’t feel like justice.
But I stood by her portrait and whispered,
“I love you. I miss you.”
And I felt her hear me.
The next morning, Julia made waffles. Real ones.
She smiled. I smiled back.
Maybe this house could feel like home.
Maybe I could plant Mom’s flowers.
I told Dad I wanted to start over.
“I’ve been awful,” I admitted. “But I want to be better.”
“You don’t have to be perfect,” he said. “Just be here.”
So I will.
I’ll paint dinosaurs in Duncan’s room. I’ll try Julia’s weird food.
And maybe, just maybe…
this life won’t be so bad after all.
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