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.
