Seventeen-year-old Maeve never expected to survive the car crash that killed her mother. But now, she’s left with a heavy truth that keeps her up at night. After the accident, she’s sent to live with a father she barely knows, a stepmother who’s trying too hard to make her feel at home, and a baby brother she refuses to connect with.
Maeve faces a tough decision: should she keep running from the past, or is it time to finally face the truth and find where she belongs?
I don’t remember the impact of the crash. Not really.
But I remember everything leading up to it.
I remember the rain. At first, it was light, just a soft tap on the windshield. But then, it grew heavier, like the sky itself was trying to drown us. I remember my mom’s laugh, that easy, carefree sound that always made me feel safe. I remember talking about Nate, the boy who sat two seats ahead of me in chemistry. I was rambling on, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, telling my mom how he was cute but kind of annoying.
I remember her glance at me, a teasing smirk on her lips. “He sounds like trouble, Maeve,” she said, her voice laced with playful warning.
And then, I remember the headlights.
They were too close. Too fast.
The next thing I remember is screaming her name, “Mom!” over and over, my voice tearing through the air like a knife.
I was outside the car. Somehow. I don’t remember how I got there. My knees were soaked in mud, and my hands were covered in blood that wasn’t mine.
Mom… she was lying there, on the pavement. Her body twisted in ways I couldn’t understand. Her eyes were half-open, staring into nothingness. I screamed her name until my throat burned, but she wouldn’t wake up.
Then, I heard sirens.
Someone grabbed me, pulling me away. I heard a voice saying something about a drunk driver. Another voice followed, saying, “The mother was driving.”
I gasped, tried to speak, to tell them it was me… but the words wouldn’t come. My world spun, my stomach twisted, and then—darkness.
I woke up in a hospital bed. The world felt muffled, like I was underwater. My head ached, my throat was dry, and my limbs felt foreign, like they belonged to someone else. There was a nurse, the steady beep of machines, and voices drifting in the hall.
When the door opened, I hoped, just for a second, that I’d see my mom walking in. But no. It was my father. Thomas.
He looked older. The last time I saw him, I could barely remember. Christmas? Two years ago? I couldn’t recall. He sat down beside me, his hand unfamiliar and rough as it rested on mine.
“Hey, kid,” he said, his voice gruff but gentle.
In that moment, the truth hit me like a punch. It wasn’t a dream.
She was really gone.
Two weeks later, I wake up in a house that doesn’t feel like mine. The walls are beige, empty. Julia, my stepmother, is in the kitchen, humming a little tune. I can smell something earthy, a sweetness in the air as she places a bowl in front of me.
“Oatmeal, topped with flaxseeds and blueberries,” she says cheerfully, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “I added some hemp hearts. Hemp seeds are good for you, honey.”
My stomach churns. I’m not hungry. I don’t want oatmeal. I want greasy diner waffles, I want the comfort of Sam’s Diner, the familiar smell of pancakes, the laughter of my mom beside me as we split them at midnight.
Instead, I push the bowl away, staring at it.
Julia watches, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Not hungry, love?” she asks, concern in her eyes.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, my voice cold.
She hesitates, then slides a protein ball across the table—homemade, with dates and oats. Her olive branch, I guess. But I don’t take it.
“Maeve,” she sighs. “Your dad will be back soon. He went to get diapers for—”
I don’t wait for her to finish. I stand up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor. I don’t want to hear more. I don’t want to know more.
The court is cold. My seat feels too stiff, like the weight of everything is pressing down on me. I’m surrounded by a sea of strangers, and across from me sits the man who killed my mother. His suit is wrinkled, his jaw unshaven. He doesn’t look sorry.
Calloway.
I want to make him look at me. I want him to see what he’s done.
The lawyer calls my name, and I step forward, my heart hammering in my chest. The room tilts slightly as I sit down, my pulse thumping in my ears.
“Can you tell us what happened that night, Maeve?” the lawyer asks.
I know what I should say. I should tell them I don’t remember the impact. I should tell them we were talking about stupid things, like boys and pizza and the rain… until the headlights came too close, too fast.
Instead, I swallow back the bile rising in my throat, steady my voice, and say, “We were on our way home. Then he hit us.”
I wait for the next question. But it doesn’t come from my lawyer. It comes from his.
A woman with sharp eyes, sharper than the rest, tilts her head. “Maeve, who was driving?”
The room falls silent.
“Your mother, correct?”
I freeze. The memory hits me like a tidal wave. The keys in my hand, the steering wheel under my fingers. The headlights… too close.
No. No, that’s not right, is it?
The world tilts again, and I glance at my father, sitting beside me. His forehead creases in confusion. I want to run. I want to vanish.
“I don’t know…” I say quietly, barely a whisper.
That night, the memory won’t leave me. It circles in my mind, sharp and clear now.
I remember my mom smiling as she handed me the keys. “You dragged me out of the house to fetch you, Mae,” she had teased. “So, you drive, kiddo. I’m tired.”
I remember the warmth of the leather under my fingers, the rain coming down harder, and then… those headlights.
I was driving. I had been driving.
The sick feeling in my stomach twists again. I’m going to be sick.
I find my father in the living room, sitting with a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He looks up as I approach, his eyes weary, tired from a long day.
“I need to tell you something,” I say, my voice trembling.
“What’s up, Maeve?” he asks, his voice soft.
I sit down, the words stuck in my throat.
“I was driving,” I finally whisper.
He doesn’t blink. He just looks at me, waiting for me to say more.
“She… she let me take the wheel. She was tired. I asked her to pick me up, and she gave me the keys. We were talking, and then the rain started, and I didn’t see him… Dad, I didn’t see him until he was right there.”
My voice breaks, my breath ragged, shallow.
But instead of anger, he reaches for me. And that’s when I break.
The sobs come fast, shaking my whole body, and I fold into him, feeling the weight of everything I’ve been carrying. His arms tighten around me, and for the first time in a long time, I let him hold me.
“It wasn’t your fault, Maeve,” he whispers, his voice thick, like something inside him is breaking. “It wasn’t your fault.”
I want to believe him. I really do.
The next morning, after the trial, Julia doesn’t say anything. She just places a plate of waffles in front of me—real waffles, with syrup and butter.
I look at her. She just shrugs, sipping her green tea. “I caved,” she says, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Don’t tell the other vegans.”
I can’t help it. A small smile tugs at my lips. It’s not much, but it’s real. Julia sees it, but she doesn’t say anything. She just smiles back.
And for the first time in a long while, I feel like maybe… just maybe… this house could start to feel like home.
Things aren’t perfect. But, slowly, they’re getting better.
The final verdict comes. Calloway takes a plea deal, admitting guilt. The sentence is lighter than I hoped, but it doesn’t feel like justice. It doesn’t feel like anything.
But as I stand before my mother’s portrait, I whisper the words I never got to say:
“I’m so sorry, Mom. I love you. I miss you.”
And for the first time since the crash, I feel like she hears me.
Healing doesn’t come quickly. But slowly, bit by bit, I begin to find my place in this house, in this new life.
