Seventeen-year-old Maeve endures the automobile collision that claims her mother’s life, yet questions about that evening continue to torment her. Relocated to live with her distant father, an overeager stepmother, and an infant brother she avoids… Maeve faces a choice: continue escaping her history or confront reality and discover her true home.

I cannot clearly recall the crash. Not entirely.

I recall the rainfall. Gentle initially, then stronger, pounding on the windshield. I recall my mother’s chuckle, my hands idly hitting the steering wheel while I described Nate, the student who sat two spots in front of me during chemistry class.

I recall how she looked over, with a sly smile.

“He seems like trouble, Maeve.”

And I recall the approaching lights.

Too near. Too swift.

My next memory is crying out for my mother.

I was outside the vehicle. Somehow. I don’t remember exiting. My knees were drenched with mud, my hands coated in blood that wasn’t my own.

Mom lay on the road, her form unnaturally bent, her eyes partly open, seeing nothing.

I called her name repeatedly until my voice grew hoarse. I attempted to rouse her, but she remained still.

Then… emergency sirens.

People dragging me away. Someone mentioning an intoxicated driver.

Another person stating, “The mother was driving.”

I tried to breathe, attempted to inform them it was me… but speech failed me. Everything rotated, my insides churned, and then…

Darkness.

I regain consciousness in a hospital room. A dull, throbbing haze occupies my head. A nurse stands nearby. Equipment beeps. Faint voices talk in the corridor.

My mouth feels parched. My body feels strange. The door swings open, and I anticipate seeing my mom. For a brief, terrible moment, I think perhaps it was all imagined.

But then my father enters.

Thomas.

He appears more aged than I remember. The last time I saw him was… Christmas? Two years ago? I can’t recall.

He takes the chair next to the bed, pausing before touching my hand with his coarse, strange fingers.

“Hey, kid,” he says.

And instantly, I understand this is real.

She’s truly gone.

Two weeks pass I awaken in an unfamiliar house.

Julia stands in the kitchen, singing quietly. The aroma of something natural and slightly sugary fills the space. I look at the dish she places before me.

Oatmeal, garnished with flaxseeds and blueberries.

“I included some hemp hearts,” she explains, as if this is routine. “Hemp seeds benefit your health, honey.”

As if my mother isn’t deceased and I haven’t been placed in this residence with its plain beige walls and an infant I barely recognize.

I lift the spoon. Examine it. Return it to the table.

Julia observes, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“Not feeling hungry, love?”

I feel hunger. Ravenous, actually. But this meal fails to satisfy me. I crave fatty restaurant waffles. I long to travel to Sam’s Diner during midnight with my mother, sharing flapjacks and giggling at the individual who regularly slumbers in booth six.

Instead, I refuse with a head motion and remove the dish.

Julia pauses before pushing a protein sphere across the table surface. It contains some handmade blend of dates and grains. Her peace offering, perhaps? I ignore it.

“Maeve,” she exhales. “Your father will return shortly. He left to purchase diapers for—”

I rise before she completes her sentence. I refuse further information. I reject additional knowledge.

Court I examine myself in the mirror, encircled by rejected attire. The initial gown seems too ceremonial. The second makes me appear childish. The third fits poorly, feels incorrect, seems unlike my style.

What clothing suits witnessing the trial of your mother’s killer?

I select a basic dark top. It evokes memories from her funeral morning. Similar to how I perched on my mattress, surrounded by every black garment I possessed, testing each one, then discarding them.

Nothing seemed appropriate. Nothing could prepare me for her burial.

I recall facing the mirror that day, viewing my reflection with red, inflamed eyes. My palms quivered while fastening buttons on an untried satin blouse. Mom would have assured me of its unimportance.

“People would focus on your lovely smile,” she might say. “Or your stunning hair.”

But I dressed for her consideration, not theirs.

Now, I secure identical buttons with equally unsteady fingers.

I desire retribution. I want Calloway punished. Yet guilt whispers internally: I failed to notice him early enough.

I close my eyelids firmly. I attempt steady breathing.

Then I collect my jacket, align my posture, and exit the room.

Justice precedes guilt.

The legal chamber feels excessively chilly, and my chair remains rigid. The defendant opposite me, my mother’s murderer, focuses on his clasped hands.

His clothing appears creased. His face shows stubble. Remorse seems absent.

Calloway.

He operated a vehicle while intoxicated. His driving privileges had previously been revoked. The law prohibited him from driving.

I wish for eye contact. I need him to witness his actions’ consequences.

The attorney announces my name. My windpipe constricts as I advance. The environment shifts slightly upon sitting. My heartbeat resonates loudly.

“Please describe that evening’s events, Maeve?”

I should mention my inability to recall the collision. I should explain our trivial conversation… about romantic interests and food and weather, until those approaching headlights.

Instead, I suppress nausea and breathe deeply.

“We traveled homeward. Then his vehicle struck ours,” I explain.

I anticipate the next query. However, it emerges not from my attorney but from his representative.

A woman displaying piercing gaze and equally incisive speech.

“Maeve, who controlled the vehicle?”

My body freezes. Silence follows. Excessively lengthy.

“Your mother, correct?” She angles her cranium.

I remain wordless. I merely affirm with a head gesture. Yet something alters within my consciousness.

A recollection.

The ignition device occupies my palm. The sensation of the steering mechanism beneath my digits. The approaching illumination.

Oh, Heavens. No. No, that seems inaccurate. Or does it?

The remembrance was returning. The mental haziness was dissipating… abruptly, the actual occurrences resurfaced. Everything appeared blurry since my hospital discharge. My focus remained on my mother’s demise, rather than the collision…

I observe my father briefly. His brow furrows. He moves slightly forward, puzzlement crossing his visage. I wish to escape. I desire invisibility.

“I remain uncertain…” escapes my lips instead, so faintly that possibly nobody detects it.

The Truth That evening, I recline in my chamber, examining the overhead surface. The atmosphere feels dense, stifling. Yet the reminiscence persists.

I perceive it currently. Crystal clearly.

Mom’s grin while transferring the ignition keys.

“You compelled me to leave home to retrieve you, Mae,” she’d remarked. “So, you operate the vehicle, child. I feel exhausted.”

The leather’s warmth against my extremities. Shared amusement. The precipitation, intensifying…

Then, those approaching lights.

I operated the automobile. It was myself.

A frigid, nauseating emotion coils within me. Vomiting seems imminent.

I locate my father in the communal area. He elevates his gaze from the sofa, his expression weary, a vessel containing amber liquid in his grasp.

“I must communicate something important,” I declare.

He acknowledges slowly. Waits.

“What concerns you, Maeve?”

I position myself opposite him. The utterances adhere densely against my larynx.

“I controlled the vehicle.”

He produces no sound. His eyelids remain stationary.

I consume saliva difficultly.

“She… she permitted me vehicular control. She experienced fatigue because I requested her collection, she provided the keys… We discussed… existence, then the rainfall initiated, and I missed his presence, Father. I failed to detect him until his immediate proximity.”

My vocalization fractures. My respiration occurs in brief, intense inhalations. Breathing becomes impossible.

His container produces noise upon placement. I anticipate shouting. Blame assignment. Instead, he extends towards me.

And I disintegrate.

The lamentations arrive rapidly, fiercely, agitating my entire physique. I collapse against him, the pressure overwhelming me. His appendages strengthen around me, and initially in numerous annual cycles, I permit his embrace.

“Blame does not lie with you, Maeve.” His tone sounds coarse, dense with unfamiliar emotion. “Blame does not lie with you.”

I aspire to accept his assertion. Truly, I intensely desire belief.

“Rest now, Maeve,” my father suggests. “Simply sleep away your troubles, and we will discuss everything tomorrow.”

We detect Julia’s presence in the cooking area. Likely preparing additional nutritional spheres.

“Fine… Dad,” I whisper and depart.

I pause at the staircase summit. Underneath, kitchen illumination floods the corridor, a gentle amber radiance against the darkness. I detect conversations, subdued and fatigued.

My father conversing with Julia.

I advance. Eavesdropping seems inappropriate. I recognize this. However, then…

“She informed me, Jules,” he reveals. “She operated the automobile.”

My respiration halts. A frigid, acute sensation permeates my body like frozen water through my circulatory system.

Quietness.

Then the delicate contact of metallic utensil against porcelain. Julia’s fermented beverage, presumably. She consumes it nightly, claiming digestive benefits. I fail to understand my fixation on this detail, except it proves simpler than concentrating on my father’s disclosure.

“Mara surrendered the vehicle controls,” he proceeds. His voice sounds strained, suggesting sleeplessness. “Maeve had been away. Requested maternal transportation from a companion’s residence.”

A prolonged, significant interval follows.

“Had she not requested… had Mara simply transported them homeward…”

He leaves the thought incomplete.

My digits grasp the stair rail. My fingernails penetrate the timber. This thought has recurred countless times in my mind. Had I refrained from calling. Had I not required transportation. Had I avoided entering that vehicle…

Julia articulates cautiously, as though meticulously selecting each term.

“Such thinking proves unproductive, Thomas,” she advises.

“Indeed?” he challenges.

A sardonic laugh emerges alongside furniture movement.

My father expels breath, gradually and profoundly. As though something internal fractures.

“When I observe her, I… Listen, I cherish her, genuinely. But she remains… unfamiliar to me, Julia.”

My inhalation falters. One parent already lost. Yet somehow, hearing my father communicate thus… creates the sensation of imminent additional loss.

“Commemorating birthdays biennially? A Christmas celebration? That constitutes no fatherhood… That represents…” his speech wavers. “I failed her presence-wise.”

These statements impact me like physical aggression to my torso. I press my cranium against the partition. My thoracic cavity experiences discomfort. My father harbors affection toward me. This knowledge exists within me.

Yet affection cannot eliminate separation. It cannot facilitate mutual understanding between individuals. It cannot compensate for years of unavailability. Currently, I question if it ever shall.

The Letter Weekend remains before courthouse return for final judgment. However, following my inadvertent auditory exposure to parental conversation yesterday evening, existence itself becomes problematic.

Reclining in bed, I detect Julia traversing the hallway. She carries Duncan, who vocally demands attention.

“Mother attends you, precious child,” she murmurs tenderly. “Did you doubt my arrival? Mother invariably responds…”

Her speech dissipates as the infant babbles loudly, succeeded by a sequence of Julia’s affectionate lip touches on his countenance.

I yearn for that. The certainty that my maternal figure would remain accessible constantly. That her presence would ensure my safety whenever I stumbled.

Presently?

I possess a paternal figure who cherishes me yet finds difficulty recognizing me.

My weekend plans remain uncertain, but seclusion within my quarters seems inevitable. Perhaps examine the container housing my mother’s significant possessions. She consistently deposited her valuable items therein.