My mom died on a Tuesday.
We were on our way home from the grocery store, the radio low, the windows cracked just enough to let in the warm air. I remember the blur of headlights, a scream tearing out of my mother’s chest, and the shriek of brakes that sounded like metal crying. Then there was a bright white flash—too bright—and everything went dark.
I woke up in a hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and grief. My throat burned. My head throbbed. I looked for my mom.
She never came.
The doctor spoke softly, like his words might break if he raised his voice. A nurse held my hand. The only person sitting in the corner was my dad—stiff, unfamiliar, older than I remembered. My parents had divorced years ago. Since then, he’d been a holiday dad. A birthday card dad. A voicemail dad.
Now he was all I had.
The days after blurred together. Paperwork. Murmured condolences. A funeral where people hugged me like I was made of glass. Then I went to live with my dad—in his house—with his new wife.
Jules.
She tried. I’ll give her that. She cooked meals I didn’t eat and asked questions I didn’t answer. The house was too quiet at night and too loud during the day, filled with reminders that I didn’t belong. My mom’s laugh didn’t echo here. My room was a guest room with beige walls and nothing of me on them.
I told myself it couldn’t get worse.
Until that night.
I was walking past the kitchen for water when I heard voices—sharp, urgent, slicing through the hum of the refrigerator. I stopped in the hallway, barefoot on cold tile. I know it was wrong, but my body froze me there.
Dad said my name.
Jules answered, hushed but heated. “You should tell her.”
“I can’t,” Dad snapped. “Not yet.”
My heart started pounding so loud I was sure they’d hear it.
“She deserves the truth,” Jules said. “Especially after everything.”
Dad exhaled, long and shaky. “She told me, Jules… I found out the day before the accident.”
Silence fell like a held breath.
“Found out what?” Jules whispered.
“That her mother was planning to leave town. With her.”
My dad’s voice cracked. “She was going to take her away. No forwarding address. Nothing.”
My knees buckled. I pressed my hand to the wall.
Jules spoke again, quieter now. “Are you saying—”
“No,” Dad said quickly. “I’m saying the crash wasn’t random. The driver was drunk, yes. But the timing… If she hadn’t decided to drive that night—”
“Stop,” Jules said. “This is not her fault.”
Another pause. Then Dad: “There’s more.”
I stopped breathing.
“She told me who the driver was. A man your ex knew. Someone she ran into earlier that evening.”
My chest felt hollow, like something had been scooped out and left empty.
“You can’t keep this from her,” Jules said firmly. “She lost her mom. She deserves answers.”
I stepped back before they could see me, my glass of water forgotten. In my room, I sat on the bed and stared at the wall until dawn. My world—already broken—had splintered again.
The next morning, Dad knocked on my door. His eyes were red. He sat beside me, hands clasped like he was praying.
“I heard you last night,” I said before he could speak.
He nodded. “I’m sorry.”
We talked for hours. About the divorce. About the plans my mom never told me. About guilt and fear and the way adults make choices that leave kids carrying the weight. He cried. I did too. For the first time since the hospital, I felt something loosen in my chest.
Grief didn’t disappear. It never does. But that morning, in the quiet light, I realized something important:
I wasn’t alone anymore—not really.
My mom was gone. The truth hurt. But the darkness I’d been walking through finally had a crack in it. And through that crack, a little light found its way in.
