The night of the crash still haunts me. I don’t remember the impact, just the rain, Mom’s laugh, and then headlights too close, too fast. I woke up in a hospital bed to a father I barely knew, realizing Mom was gone forever. The guilt followed me everywhere, whispering that maybe I was to blame — that I had taken the wheel and taken her away.
Living with Dad, Julia, and the baby felt like being a guest in someone else’s home. Julia’s smiles and oatmeal breakfasts couldn’t fill the emptiness I carried, and I pushed everything and everyone away. In court, I wanted justice against the man who killed her, but when the memory surfaced — my own hands gripping the steering wheel — the truth nearly destroyed me. I had been driving.
When I finally confessed to Dad, I expected anger, maybe even hatred. Instead, he pulled me into his arms and let me break. Later, I found a letter from Mom, urging him to be the father I needed. Her words were proof she still believed in us — and that maybe I didn’t have to carry this guilt alone. For the first time, I felt like she hadn’t left me, not really.
Healing is slow, but it’s real. Julia made waffles one morning, and I smiled — a real smile — for the first time in months. I told Dad I wanted to start over, with him, with Julia, with Duncan. And as we sat together at the table, I realized the past couldn’t be changed, but love could still stitch us back together. That morning, for the first time since the crash, I felt like I belonged — not in the shadow of what I lost, but in the light of what I still had.
