Seventeen-year-old Maeve survives the car crash that kills her mother—but the truth about that night won’t stop chasing her. Now forced to live with a father she barely knows, a well-meaning stepmother, and a baby brother she doesn’t dare connect with, Maeve must choose: will she keep running from the past or face it head-on—and finally figure out where she belongs?

---

Fragments

I don’t remember the impact. Not really.
But I remember the rain. It started soft, gentle, like a whisper on the windshield, then built into a steady drumming rhythm. I remember my mom laughing—really laughing—as I told her about Nate, the guy who sat two seats ahead of me in chemistry.

I remember her teasing glance.

“He sounds like trouble, Maeve.”

I remember rolling my eyes, smiling.

Then I remember the headlights.

Too close.
Too fast.
Too bright.

And then, nothing.

Just screams. My own.

When I came to, I was outside the car somehow. I don’t remember climbing out. My knees were caked with mud, my hands painted with blood that wasn’t mine.

My mother lay on the pavement. Her body twisted, her eyes glassy and vacant.

I called her name until my voice cracked. I shook her. Pleaded. But she didn’t move.

Then came the sirens. The chaos. Hands pulling me back. A voice murmuring about a drunk driver.

Another voice added: “The mother was driving.”

I tried to speak, tried to say, No—it was me. But the words caught in my throat, swallowed by panic and pain.

Then—blackness.

---

Aftermath

When I woke up in the hospital, I was sure it had been a nightmare. A bad dream that would dissolve when I blinked the fog away.

But it didn’t.

There was a nurse. A heart monitor. Machines humming. Voices just outside the room.
And then, my father stepped in.

Thomas.

I hadn’t seen him in two years. Maybe longer. He looked older, thinner. Like someone worn down by time.

He sat beside me, hesitant.

“Hey, kid,” he said, his voice strained and gravelly.

Just like that, the truth hit me. This wasn’t a dream.
She was gone.

---

Two Weeks Later

I woke up in a house that didn’t smell like home.
Julia—my stepmother—was in the kitchen, humming some folk song, baking something that reeked of wellness and quiet grief.

She placed a bowl in front of me.

“Oatmeal. With flaxseed, blueberries… and a sprinkle of hemp hearts. It’s good for you.”

As if I cared. As if health food could fill the crater inside me.

I picked up the spoon. Held it. Then set it back down.

Julia didn’t flinch. Just tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Not hungry, love?”

I was hungry. Desperately. But not for this.

I wanted pancakes at midnight. I wanted the booth at Sam’s Diner. I wanted Mom and maple syrup and messy laughter.

Instead, I pushed the bowl away.

She slid a protein ball toward me. Dates and oats. An offering, I guess.

I didn’t touch it.

She tried again: “Your dad ran out to grab diapers for Duncan—”

I stood up and left the room before she could finish.

---

Court

What do you wear to confront the man who killed your mother?

I stood in front of the mirror, clothes strewn everywhere. Nothing fit. Nothing felt right.

I finally picked a black blouse. The same one I wore to the funeral. My hands shook as I buttoned it—just like they did that morning.

I remembered her voice:
“They’ll be too busy looking at that beautiful smile.”

But I wasn’t dressing for them. I was dressing for her.

The courtroom was freezing. Stale. The chair under me hard as stone.
And across the room: Calloway. The drunk driver. Head lowered. Wrinkled suit. Unshaved jaw.

He didn’t look sorry.

I waited for him to look up. He didn’t.

The lawyer called my name.

I took the stand, the truth bubbling under the surface, choking me.

“We were on our way home. Then… he hit us.”

Then his lawyer asked the question I hadn’t prepared for:

“Who was driving, Maeve?”

A pause. Too long.

“Your mother, correct?”

I nodded.

But then… something shifted.

A memory. A blur sharpening.

Keys in my hand.
My fingers on the wheel.
Mom, tired, saying: You drive, kiddo.

Oh God.

Was I the one driving?

---

The Truth

That night, I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling like it might offer me a way out.

I remembered it clearly now. The keys. The laughter. The sudden rain. The lights.

I was driving.

The nausea hit hard. I staggered into the living room where my dad sat with a drink, his face buried in shadows.

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

When I told him, his expression didn’t change.

“She gave me the keys, Dad. She was tired. I didn’t see the other car until it was too late.”

He reached out. And when I collapsed into his arms, he held me.

“It wasn’t your fault, Maeve,” he whispered. “You didn’t know. You were just a kid.”

I didn’t believe him. But I wanted to.

---

The Eavesdropping

Later that night, I heard them.

My dad and Julia in the kitchen. Whispering.

“She told me,” he said. “She was driving.”

Silence.

“If Mara had just driven… if she hadn’t handed her the keys…”

Another pause.

“I love her, Julia. But she’s a stranger to me.”

Those words pierced me. Worse than a scream.

“I wasn’t there,” he added. “Not when it mattered.”

Neither was I.

---

The Letter

I found the trunk of Mom’s things the next day. Her special things. Her memories.

Inside a green velvet box was a letter.

Thomas,
Maeve’s sleeping upstairs. And I’m sitting here wondering if I made the right choice.

She’s brilliant, stubborn, so full of life. Maybe it’s time you try. Maybe she’ll let you in.

Mara

She had doubts. Just like I do now.

If she could question her choices and still love me with everything she had… maybe I can learn to forgive myself, too.

---

The Verdict

Calloway took a plea. Fewer years, but guilt admitted.

It wasn’t justice. Not really.

But when I stood in front of Mom’s picture, I said what I never could before:

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

And for the first time since the crash, I felt like maybe she heard me.

---

A New Beginning

The next morning, Julia made waffles.

Real ones. Golden brown. Maple syrup.

“I caved,” she said. “Don’t tell the other vegans.”

I laughed. A real laugh. Small. Raw. But real.

She didn’t say anything—just smiled.

Maybe it was a start.

Later, I found Dad on the porch.

“Did I disappoint you?” I asked.

He shook his head. “You didn’t. I disappointed myself.”

We talked for hours. About what we lost. What we still had.

“I want to paint a mural in Duncan’s room,” I said. “Dinosaurs, maybe.”

He grinned. “He’d love that.”

Maybe I’m not just surviving anymore.

Maybe I’m healing.

Maybe—just maybe—this could be home.