I don’t fully remember the crash, just flashes—rain at first, light, then heavy, tapping against the windshield. I recall telling my mom about Nate, the guy in chemistry, her smirk as she glanced over and said, “He sounds like trouble.” Then, headlights too close, too fast.
Next, I’m outside, kneeling in mud, hands covered in blood that wasn’t mine. My mom’s body was twisted, her eyes staring blankly. I screamed for her, tried to wake her, but she wouldn’t move. Then, sirens. I heard voices—someone talking about a drunk driver. Another saying, “The mother was driving.” I tried to tell them it was me, but I couldn’t speak.
I wake up in a hospital bed, aching, dry throat. When I see my father instead of my mom, it hits me—she’s really gone.
Two weeks later, I wake up in a house that doesn’t feel like mine. Julia gives me oatmeal with flaxseeds and blueberries, and it makes me miss my mom. I don’t want this—I’d rather be at Sam’s Diner with my mom, splitting waffles. I push the bowl away. Julia offers a protein ball, but I don’t take it.
I don’t know what to wear for the trial—the man who killed my mother is in court. I settle on a black blouse, like the one I wore the morning of her funeral. Dressing for her memory, I wish she’d been here to reassure me.
The courtroom is cold. The man who killed her, Calloway, doesn’t look sorry. I want him to look at me, to understand what he did. But when I’m asked who was driving that night, I hesitate. I was.
The truth hits me later, in fragments. I had been driving, not my mom. She let me take the wheel because she was tired. The headlights, the rain, I hadn’t seen him until it was too late. I finally tell my dad. His arms tighten around me. “It wasn’t your fault,” he whispers, but I’m not sure I believe him.
Weeks later, after overhearing my dad and Julia, I realize how distant he feels. I find a letter my mom wrote to him, doubting whether he’d ever truly be there for me.
At the trial, Calloway pleads guilty. It’s not justice. It’s nothing.
Julia makes waffles the next morning, a small comfort. She suggests planting my mom’s favorite flowers to make the house feel like home. I agree. But first, I need to talk to my dad. We need to clear the air.
Sitting on the porch, I ask him, “Did I disappoint you, Dad?” He admits he wasn’t prepared to be a father to me. I want to start over, try to be better. He tells me, “You don’t have to be perfect.”
I want to believe him.
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