The night of the crash still haunts me. I don’t remember the impact — only the rain, Mom’s laugh, and headlights coming too fast. When I woke up in the hospital, Mom was gone, and beside me stood a father I barely knew. The guilt hit harder than any injury, whispering that it was somehow my fault — that maybe I had taken the wheel and taken her away.
Living with Dad, Julia, and the baby felt like being an outsider in someone else’s life. Julia’s warm smiles and oatmeal breakfasts couldn’t fill the emptiness I carried. I shut everyone out, convinced I didn’t deserve comfort. In court, I demanded justice for the man who killed her — until flashes of memory returned. My own hands. My own steering. I was the one driving that night.
When I told Dad the truth, I braced for anger or rejection. Instead, he held me close and let me break. Later, I found a letter from Mom — words meant for him, asking him to be the father I would need if she ever couldn’t be there. Reading it felt like she was still guiding us, still believing in us even after she was gone.
Healing didn’t happen overnight. But one morning, Julia made waffles, and I laughed — really laughed — for the first time in months. I told Dad I wanted to start over, to live instead of just exist. He smiled and said, “That’s all she ever wanted.”
As we sat together at the table, the air felt lighter. The past couldn’t be rewritten, but love could mend what was shattered. That morning, for the first time since the crash, I didn’t feel broken. I felt home — not in loss, but in the love that survived it.