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.