Seventeen-year-old Maeve was supposed to have a quiet ride home with her mom that night, but instead, her world shattered. The car crash left her mother dead and Maeve haunted by the memories of what happened. Now, Maeve has to live with her dad, a man she barely knows, a stepmom who seems to try too hard, and a baby brother she can’t bring herself to love.
The questions pile up: Will she keep running from her past, or will she finally confront the truth and figure out where she belongs?
I don’t remember the crash itself. Not really.
But I remember the rain. At first, it was light, tapping softly against the windshield. Then it came down heavier, the sound growing louder, almost like a warning. I remember laughing with my mom, talking about Nate, the guy I couldn’t stop thinking about from chemistry class. I was tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, lost in the moment.
And I remember my mom’s voice, playful but concerned.
“He sounds like trouble, Maeve,” she teased, glancing over at me with that smirk of hers.
I laughed, rolling my eyes. But before I could say anything else, the headlights appeared. Too close. Too fast. They blinded us, and in that instant, my heart stopped.
The next thing I remember was screaming my mom’s name.
I was outside the car somehow. I don’t even know how I got there. My knees were sinking into the muddy ground, my hands covered in blood that wasn’t mine. And there, lying on the pavement, was my mother. Her body was twisted in ways it shouldn’t be. Her eyes were half-open, staring at nothing.
I screamed for her again, but she didn’t move. I shook her, hoping she would wake up, but she didn’t.
Then the sirens.
People pulled me away, their voices talking about a drunk driver, but then someone mentioned, “The mother was driving.”
I gasped, my heart pounding in my chest. I wanted to shout that it was me, but the words wouldn’t come. Everything spun, and then…
Blackness.
When I woke up, I was in a hospital room, everything around me blurry and dull. A nurse moved quietly, and I could hear the beep of machines and the soft murmur of voices in the hallway. My throat was dry, and my body ached as if I had been in the crash myself.
The door opened, and I expected to see my mom standing there. For a moment, I almost believed that it had all been a nightmare. That maybe, just maybe, she’d walk in and say everything was fine.
But then my father stepped in. Thomas.
He looked older than I remembered. The last time I saw him was… Christmas? Two years ago? I couldn’t quite place it.
He sat beside my bed, his hand resting gently on mine, though it felt foreign.
“Hey, kid,” he said quietly.
In that moment, I knew this wasn’t a dream.
She was really gone.
Two weeks later, I woke up in a house that didn’t feel like home.
The kitchen smelled of something unfamiliar—earthy and sweet. I blinked at the bowl Julia set in front of me. Oatmeal, topped with flaxseeds and blueberries.
“I added some hemp hearts,” Julia said, sounding way too casual. “Hemp seeds are good for you, honey.”
I stared at the bowl, the lump in my throat growing. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want healthy oatmeal. I wanted greasy diner waffles. I wanted to be with my mom, sitting at Sam’s Diner at midnight, splitting pancakes, laughing at the guy who always fell asleep in booth six.
But instead, I pushed the spoon aside and shook my head.
Julia didn’t give up, though. She slid a protein ball across the table. “Maeve, your dad will be back soon. He went to get diapers for—”
I couldn’t listen to any more. I couldn’t take it. I stood up, leaving the room without another word.
The courtroom felt cold. The chair beneath me was stiff. The air was thick with tension. And across from me, sitting in his wrinkled suit, was the man who killed my mother. Calloway. He didn’t even look sorry. His eyes stayed fixed on his hands, his jaw unshaven. He looked like a man who had no regrets.
When my lawyer called my name, my heart hammered. I stood, my legs shaky, and walked toward the stand. My throat tightened, but I took a breath, ready to speak.
“Can you tell us what happened that night, Maeve?”
I should’ve told them that I didn’t remember the impact. That we were talking about nothing important—boys and rain and pizza—until the headlights appeared. But instead, my throat closed up, and I just said, “We were on our way home. Then he hit us.”
The next question didn’t come from my lawyer. It came from Calloway’s.
“Maeve, who was driving?” She had sharp eyes, her voice cold and cutting.
The room went still.
“Your mother, correct?” She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing.
I didn’t say anything at first. I just nodded. But inside, something shifted.
The memory came rushing back. I was holding the keys. I had the steering wheel in my hands. Mom had handed me the keys, saying she was too tired to drive. She smiled as she gave them to me.
“Come on, kiddo, you drive. I’m tired.”
I was driving. I didn’t want to believe it, but the truth was undeniable. It wasn’t just the crash that haunted me; it was the realization that I was behind the wheel that night.
“I don’t know…” I whispered, barely audible. My voice trembled, and I didn’t know if anyone could even hear me.
That night, in my room, I sat on the floor, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the truth pressing down on me. I couldn’t escape it. I could see it now—Mom smiling, handing me the keys, telling me to drive. The rain falling, the headlights blinding me…
I was the one who was driving.
The guilt twisted in my gut, and I felt like I might be sick.
I found my father in the living room, sitting on the couch with a glass in his hand. His eyes were tired, and he looked older, worn down.
“I need to tell you something,” I said quietly.
He nodded slowly, setting the glass aside.
“What’s up, Maeve?” he asked.
I sat down across from him, my throat tight. The words were stuck, but they had to come out.
“I was driving,” I finally said.
He didn’t react at first. He just sat there, staring at me, his face unreadable.
“She let me take the wheel,” I choked out. “I was the one driving. The rain started, and I didn’t see him… I didn’t see him until he was right there.”
My voice cracked, and I fought to catch my breath. The weight of it all was suffocating.
He set his glass down with a soft clink, and I braced myself for the anger. The blame. But instead, he reached for me, pulling me into his arms.
And then I broke.
The sobs came fast and raw, shaking my entire body. I collapsed into him, my world crumbling. For the first time in years, he held me, and I let him.
“It wasn’t your fault, Maeve,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “It wasn’t your fault.”
I wanted to believe him. I needed to.
The next night, I overheard my father talking to Julia in the kitchen.
“She told me, Jules,” he said quietly. “She was driving.”
My heart stopped.
I pressed my back to the wall, my fingers curling into the wood.
My father’s voice was rough. “Mara gave her the keys… If she hadn’t asked, if Mara had just driven them home—”
He didn’t finish, but I didn’t need him to.
The weekend before the final court verdict was unbearable. I tried to distract myself with my mother’s things, sorting through her trunk of keepsakes, but nothing helped.
I came across a letter from my mom, written long before the crash. Her handwriting was familiar, elegant. As I read it, my heart broke again.
“Thomas,” it started. “I don’t know why I’m writing this. Maybe because you’ll never read it. Maybe because I’m tired. Or maybe because Maeve is asleep upstairs, and for the first time in a long time, I wondered if I made the right choice.”
I read on, my throat tight with emotion. The letter was full of doubt. She didn’t know if my father could ever be the kind of father I needed.
The words haunted me, but they gave me hope too. Maybe there was still time for us.
The verdict came down—Calloway took a plea deal. Less time in prison, but he admitted his guilt. It didn’t feel like justice. It didn’t feel like anything at all.
I stood in front of my mother’s portrait, whispering the words I never said when she was alive: “I’m so sorry, Mom. I love you. I miss you.”
For the first time in a long time, I felt like she heard me.
Healing didn’t happen overnight, but it started with small steps. Julia made waffles the morning after the trial. Real waffles. With syrup. And butter.
“Don’t tell the other vegans,” she teased.
I smiled. A real smile. And maybe, just maybe, this house could start to feel like home.
Later, I talked to my father. We both needed to clear the air.
“I want to start over,” I said quietly.
His face softened. He nodded.
“We’ll get there, Maeve,” he said. “We’ll start over together.”
And for the first time in a long time, I believed him.
