Maeve is seventeen when the accident happens.

She survives the crash that claims her mother’s life, but what happened that night won’t let her go. Now living with a distant father she barely knows, a well-meaning stepmother, and a baby brother she refuses to acknowledge, Maeve is forced to confront the memories she’s tried to bury. Will she keep running from the past, or will she finally face the truth—and maybe, find a place to call home?

I don’t remember the crash itself.

I remember the rain—soft at first, then pounding, drumming on the windshield. I remember Mom laughing, and me tapping the steering wheel as I talked about Nate, the kid in chem class who made me blush.

She gave me that knowing look.

“He sounds like trouble, Maeve.”

And then—headlights.

Too bright. Too fast.

The next thing I knew, I was outside the car. Knees caked in mud, hands slick with blood that didn’t belong to me. I screamed for Mom. She was twisted on the pavement, unmoving, eyes wide and unseeing. I tried to wake her.

Sirens.
Voices.
Hands pulling me away.

“The mother was driving,” someone said.

I opened my mouth to correct them—it was me—but the words wouldn’t come. And then everything went dark.

I woke in a hospital bed, the world muffled and foggy. A nurse. Beeping machines. The distant hum of life outside my door.

For a moment, I believed it was all a nightmare. That Mom would walk in and everything would be fine.

But instead, my father stepped in.

Thomas.

Older than I remembered. He hadn’t really been part of my life for years. He sat beside me, awkwardly resting a hand on mine.

“Hey, kid.”

And just like that, I knew. This wasn’t a dream. She was really gone.

Two weeks later, I’m in a house that doesn’t feel like mine.

Julia, my stepmother, hums in the kitchen. She serves me a bowl of oatmeal topped with flaxseeds and blueberries.

“Hemp hearts too,” she adds, like it’s normal.

Like my mom isn’t dead. Like I haven’t been dropped into this beige world with a baby who doesn’t even know my name.

I don’t want oatmeal. I want diner waffles at midnight with Mom. I want booth six and bad coffee.

I push the bowl away.

Julia offers a protein ball. Homemade, of course. I ignore it.

“Your dad went to get diapers for—”

I leave before she finishes.

Court.
The day Calloway—the drunk driver—is on trial.

I try on outfit after outfit, none of them right. What do you wear to watch the man who took your mother away?

I end up in the same blouse I wore to her funeral. My hands shake as I button it.

I want justice.
But guilt is louder.

In the courtroom, Calloway doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t look sorry.

When I take the stand, the lawyer asks what happened. I say, “He hit us.”

Then his attorney cuts in.

“Who was driving?”

I freeze. Too long. Then nod.

“Your mother, correct?”

I nod again, but inside something shifts. A memory stirs.

The keys in my hand. The steering wheel beneath my fingers.

Was it… me?

That night, I remember everything.

Mom, handing me the keys.

“You dragged me out to pick you up. So you drive, kiddo. I’m tired.”

We laughed. The rain came.

The headlights.

I was driving.

My stomach churns. I find my dad.

“I need to tell you something,” I say.

I sit down across from him. The words barely come out.

“I was driving.”

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t flinch. He just pulls me into his arms.

And I fall apart.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispers.

I want to believe him. I really do.

Later that night, I hear my dad talking to Julia in the kitchen.

“She was driving.”
“If Mara had just driven them home…”

I hear the ache in his voice. The guilt. The distance. How he barely knows me.

I press my forehead to the wall, heart cracking in two.

Love doesn’t erase absence.

I spend the weekend holed up in my room. I dig through Mom’s old trunk—the one she kept her keepsakes in. That’s when I find the letter.

Written in her delicate, slanted handwriting. Soft paper. Faded ink.

It’s to my father.

Thomas,

Maybe you’ll never read this. Maybe I just needed to write it.

Maeve is asleep upstairs, and for the first time in a long time, I wonder if I made the right choice.

She’s brilliant and messy and so alive.

Are you ready to be her dad? Really?

She’ll be sixteen soon. There’s still time.

—Mara

I press the letter to my chest, tears burning my eyes.

Even Mom had doubts. And if she did… maybe I can, too.

Maybe there’s still time for my father and me. Maybe this family—odd and mismatched as it feels—could become something real.

Calloway takes a plea. Less time. Admits guilt.

It doesn’t feel like justice. But I whisper to Mom’s picture:

“I’m sorry. I love you.”

And for once, it feels like maybe—just maybe—she hears me.

The next morning, Julia serves real waffles.

Butter. Syrup. No flaxseeds.

She shrugs.

“Don’t tell the other vegans.”

I smile. For the first time in a long time, it feels real.

Later, I sit beside my dad on the porch.

“Did I disappoint you?” I ask.

“Never.”

He sighs, tells me he didn’t know how to be my father up close. That he’d been failing at it.

“I want to start over,” I say.

He doesn’t hesitate. He pulls me close.

“I’ve been awful,” I admit. “Especially to Duncan. But I want to change. I want to be here.”

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he says. “Just be here.”

I nod. Fighting tears.

“I want to paint a mural in Duncan’s room. Dinosaurs, maybe. And I’m going to learn to make vegan curry with Julia. I’ll hate it… but I’ll try.”

My dad laughs. Pulls me into a hug.

And for the first time in a long time, I let him.

Maybe… this life could be something after all.