I don\u2019t really remember the crash. Not clearly. What sticks with me is the rain\u2014first a faint whisper, then loud enough to drown out the music in the car. I remember Mom laughing. I remember her teasing me about Nate from chemistry class. I remember the sudden flash of headlights coming straight at us. And then? Screaming her name from somewhere outside the car, knees sunk in wet mud, hands covered in her blood. She was lying in the road, twisted, still, her eyes staring past me into nothingness. I shook her. I begged her. Then came sirens, voices, and hands dragging me away.<\/p>\n
One voice said she was driving. I tried to speak. To tell them the truth. But my mouth couldn\u2019t form words, and the world tilted into darkness.
\nI woke up in a hospital, overwhelmed with pain and confusion. My father\u2014Thomas\u2014was there, a stranger who used to send birthday texts and show up every other Christmas. He put his hand over mine and said, \u201cHey, kid.\u201d And just like that, I knew. She was gone.<\/p>\n
Two weeks later, I was in a house that didn\u2019t feel like home. Julia\u2014his wife\u2014was trying hard. She made oatmeal with flaxseeds and smiled too much. I wanted greasy waffles at midnight with Mom, not protein balls and forced cheer. There was a baby here too, Duncan. My half-brother. I refused to even say his name aloud. I didn\u2019t belong in this life they had built without me.
\nWhen the court date came, I wore the same blouse I had worn to Mom\u2019s funeral. I sat in that cold courtroom and stared at the man who killed her\u2014Calloway. Drunk. Reckless. Unforgivable. When they asked what happened, I said, \u201cHe hit us.\u201d But then his lawyer stood up and asked who was driving. My breath caught. My mouth froze.<\/p>\n
It had always been blurry. But suddenly, everything came into focus. The weight of the steering wheel in my hands. The feel of her giving me the keys because I asked for a ride. \u201cYou dragged me out here, Mae. You\u2019re driving,\u201d her words were clear now. And then the rain. And the headlights. It was me. I was driving.<\/p>\n
I told my father that night. I whispered it through sobs. \u201cI didn\u2019t see him until it was too late.\u201d He didn\u2019t yell. He just held me like it was the first time in years. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t your fault,\u201d he said. But guilt is a stubborn thing.
\nLater, I overheard him telling Julia the truth. He sounded broken. \u201cShe\u2019s a stranger to me,\u201d he said. \u201cI wasn\u2019t there.\u201d I pressed my forehead to the wall, biting back tears. Love doesn\u2019t undo distance. It doesn\u2019t fill the gap left by lost time.<\/p>\n
In Mom\u2019s old trunk, I found a letter she had written to my dad a year before she died. She had asked him in writing if he was finally ready to be a real father. \u201cMaybe, if you try, she\u2019ll let you in.\u201d Her words weren\u2019t full of certainty. She had doubts too. Somehow, that gave me permission to have mine.<\/p>\n
The verdict came: Calloway took a plea. Less time. Full admission. It didn\u2019t feel like justice, but at least it was the truth. That night, I whispered to Mom\u2019s picture, \u201cI\u2019m sorry. I love you.\u201d And for the first time, I felt like maybe she heard me.<\/p>\n
The next morning, there were waffles on the table. Real ones. Butter. Syrup. Julia just shrugged. \u201cDon\u2019t tell the other vegans,\u201d she said, sipping her tea. And I smiled. A real smile.<\/p>\n
That weekend, I told Dad I wanted to start over. I wanted to get to know my brother. I wanted to paint his nursery. I wanted to try Julia\u2019s weird food. I wanted to try being part of something again.<\/p>\n
Dad pulled me into a hug. For the first time, I let him. Maybe this life\u2014this messy, unfinished, imperfect life\u2014could be home. Maybe healing doesn\u2019t come all at once. Maybe it arrives in moments. A letter. A hug. A plate of waffles. A mural painted for someone too young to understand, but one day, maybe he will.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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