Seventeen-year-old Maeve narrowly survives the tragic car crash that steals her mother’s life, but the painful truth about that night lingers, refusing to be buried. Sent to live with a father she barely knows, a stepmother who tries too hard, and a baby brother she can’t bring herself to acknowledge, Maeve faces a heart-wrenching decision: Will she continue to flee from the grief that threatens to swallow her, or summon the courage to confront it—and uncover where she truly belongs?
Grief Counseling Services
The collision? I don’t remember it—not clearly, anyway.
What I remember is the rain. At first, it was gentle, then suddenly it was torrential, hammering against the windshield like the sky was angry at us. I remember my mother’s laugh, light and warm, as I babbled about Nate—the boy in chemistry who always borrowed pencils and never returned them.
“He sounds like trouble, Maeve,” she teased, her eyes dancing with amusement.
And then—headlights. Blinding. Too close. Too fast.
The next thing I remember is screaming her name.
I was kneeling in the mud, hands sticky with blood that wasn’t mine. Mom lay on the pavement, twisted and still, her eyes wide and unseeing.
I screamed for her to wake up, my throat raw, shaking her gently at first, then desperately—but she didn’t move.
Sirens cut through the chaos, hands pulled me away, and voices murmured something about a drunk driver. “The mother was driving,” someone said. I tried to correct them, to tell them it had been me—but my words wouldn’t come. My world spun, and darkness swallowed me whole.
I woke up in a hospital room, disoriented and numb. For a moment, I dared to hope it was all just a nightmare—until my father walked in.
Thomas.
He looked older, worn down, distant. I hadn’t seen him in years. He sat beside my bed, hesitating, then placed his hand on mine. “Hey, kid,” he said softly.
That’s when it hit me. She was really gone.
Two weeks later, I found myself in a house that wasn’t mine. Julia, my father’s wife, hummed cheerfully in the kitchen as she set a bowl of oatmeal with flaxseeds and blueberries in front of me.
“I added hemp hearts,” she said, as if this was all just normal. As if my mother hadn’t just died. As if I wasn’t stuck here with beige walls, weird health food, and a baby brother I couldn’t even name.
I stared at the oatmeal, pushing it away. All I wanted was midnight pancakes at Sam’s Diner, sharing laughter with my mom under the neon lights.
Julia sighed, sliding a homemade protein ball across the table, a peace offering. I didn’t touch it.
When she started talking about diapers for Duncan, I stood up and walked away. I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.
The morning of the trial, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, clothes scattered around me. Nothing felt right. How could I possibly wear something that would be enough for the man who’d taken my mother away? At the courthouse, Calloway—the drunk driver—sat quietly, avoiding my gaze. His expression was unreadable. My stomach twisted when they called me to testify.
“What happened that night, Maeve?”
The truth burned inside me, but the words wouldn’t come. The lawyer had assumed my mother had been driving, but suddenly, I saw flashes—my hands gripping the wheel, my mother handing me the keys, laughing as she said she was tired…
In panic, I whispered, “I don’t know…”
That evening, the memories hit me with stunning clarity. Mom, smiling gently, handing me the keys: “You dragged me out here, Mae. You drive, kiddo.”
I’d been driving. It had been me.
Trembling with guilt, I found my father sitting alone with a glass in hand. I confessed everything in a whisper, tears streaming down my face. “It was my fault.”
He didn’t yell. He pulled me close, whispering fiercely, “It wasn’t your fault, Maeve.”
Later, from the top of the stairs, I overheard him talking to Julia. His voice was broken, filled with raw sadness. “If Maeve hadn’t asked her mother to pick her up…” His voice cracked. “I look at her, Jules, and she’s practically a stranger. I wasn’t there for her.”
His words pierced me deeply. Time and distance hadn’t erased his love, but they had left scars. I wondered if we could ever heal them.
Days later, while going through my mother’s things, I found an old, unsent letter tucked inside a green velvet box. Her handwriting, looping and familiar, filled the page:
“Thomas,
Maeve is brilliant, stubborn, messy—so wonderfully alive. Sometimes I wonder if you’re finally ready. Could you be the father she needs?
Maybe she’d let you in if you tried.”
My heart shattered and healed all at once. She’d wondered. She’d hoped. Maybe I could hope, too.
The verdict arrived quietly. Calloway took a plea deal—less time, but a full admission of guilt. Justice felt empty, hollow. Standing before my mother’s portrait, I whispered, “I’m sorry, Mom. I miss you.” Somehow, it felt like she heard me.
The next morning, Julia surprised me with real waffles—syrup and all.
“I caved,” she joked lightly. “Don’t tell the other vegans.”
A small, unexpected smile tugged at my lips. It felt good.
“You know,” Julia continued gently, “you should plant some of your mother’s favorite flowers. It’ll make this house feel more like home.”
I nodded slowly. “I think I’d like that.”
But first, I needed to have an honest conversation with my father. I found him sitting on the porch steps, lost in thought.
“Dad,” I said hesitantly, “Did I disappoint you?”
He looked up, startled. “Never, Maeve. I was just caught off guard by your confession. I didn’t know how to help you. I wasn’t prepared to truly be your father after being gone for so long.”
Taking a deep breath, I met his eyes. “Can we start over? I’ve been terrible—to you, Julia, and especially Duncan. He doesn’t deserve that.”
My father’s expression softened. “Maeve, you don’t have to be perfect. Just be here.”
A warmth spread through me, something I hadn’t felt in weeks. “I want to paint a dinosaur mural in Duncan’s room,” I said, smiling softly. “And maybe learn to cook Julia’s vegan curry—even if I’ll probably hate it.”
He chuckled quietly and pulled me close. This time, I let him. For the first time in ages, I believed—truly believed—that we could find our way back to each other.
Maybe, just maybe, healing was possible.
And maybe, in this house full of unfamiliar faces, strange health foods, lavender candles, and a little boy I still didn’t know, I could finally start to feel at home.
