Maeve’s Journey: From Grief to Truth
Seventeen-year-old Maeve’s life changed forever when a car crash stole her mother from her. The crash killed her mother, but the truth about that night still haunts Maeve.
After the tragedy, she’s sent to live with a father she barely knows, a stepmother who tries too hard, and a baby brother she’s not sure she even wants to get to know. Maeve faces a choice: will she keep running from the past or will she finally face the truth and find a place where she truly belongs?
The Crash
I don’t really remember the crash. Not the impact. Not the pain.
What I remember are the little things. The rain started light, then got heavier, pounding on the windshield like the world was angry. I remember my mother’s laugh, the sound of it light and warm, and how I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel as I told her about Nate, the boy who sat a few seats ahead of me in chemistry.
I remember my mom looking at me with that smirk she always wore when she thought I was up to something.
“He sounds like trouble, Maeve,” she teased.
I remember her voice, the smile that always made me feel like I could tell her anything. I was so focused on her that I didn’t notice the headlights until it was too late.
Too close. Too fast.
The next thing I remember was screaming her name.
I was outside the car. I don’t know how I got there. I didn’t remember moving. But my knees were wet from the mud, and my hands were covered in blood that wasn’t mine.
Mom was lying on the pavement. Her body twisted in a way that didn’t look right. Her eyes were half-open, staring at nothing.
I screamed for her. I shook her. But she wouldn’t wake up.
Then the sirens.
“Drunk driver,” someone shouted.
“The mother was driving,” someone else said.
I tried to say something. I wanted to scream that it wasn’t her, that I was the one who had been driving. But the words wouldn’t come. Everything went black, and I slipped into unconsciousness.
The Hospital
I woke up in a hospital bed, my head foggy and aching. The beeping of machines was the only sound, and I could hear voices whispering outside. My throat was dry, and my body felt strange, like it wasn’t mine. I looked around, expecting to see my mother, hoping it had all been a terrible dream.
But it wasn’t.
My father, Thomas, stepped into the room. He looked different, older than I remembered. The last time I saw him was… Christmas? Two years ago? It felt like a lifetime.
He sat beside me, unsure of how to act, then placed a rough hand on mine.
“Hey, kid,” he said, his voice sounding unfamiliar, almost like a stranger’s.
And just like that, I realized this wasn’t a dream. She was really gone.
A New Home
Two weeks later, I woke up in a house that didn’t feel like mine. It was too quiet, too unfamiliar. I sat up in bed, hearing Julia humming in the kitchen. The smell of something sweet and earthy filled the air.
She set a bowl of oatmeal in front of me. It had flaxseeds and blueberries, and she even added “hemp hearts.”
“I added some hemp hearts,” Julia said, as though that made it all better. “Hemp seeds are good for you, honey.”
As if my mother wasn’t dead. As if I wasn’t suddenly living with a father I barely knew, a stepmother who kept trying too hard, and a baby brother I didn’t even know how to talk to.
I stared at the oatmeal. I wanted to refuse, but I was starving. I just didn’t want this. I wanted my old life back. The greasy diner waffles and the midnight runs to Sam’s Diner with my mom. I wanted her laugh, her warmth.
I pushed the bowl away, the sound of Julia’s voice following me as I stood up.
“Not hungry, love?” she asked gently.
I shook my head, but my stomach grumbled.
Julia slid a protein ball across the table, something she’d made from dates and oats. A peace offering, I guess. I didn’t take it.
“Maeve,” she sighed. “Your dad’s going to be back soon. He went to get diapers for—”
I didn’t want to hear more. I couldn’t.
The Trial
The day of the trial, I stood in front of the mirror, surrounded by a pile of discarded clothes. Nothing felt right. A dress too formal, one that made me look too young, another too tight. What do you wear to watch the man who killed your mother sit on trial?
I finally grabbed a simple black blouse, like the one I wore to her funeral. I remember that morning so clearly, standing in front of my mirror with swollen, puffy eyes. My hands shook as I buttoned up a satin blouse, one my mother had always told me was “too fancy” for everyday wear.
“They’d be too busy looking at that beautiful smile of yours,” she had said. “Or that gorgeous hair.”
But now, standing in front of the mirror, I wasn’t dressing for them. I was dressing for her. For the woman who wasn’t there to see me grow up.
As I buttoned up the blouse, my fingers trembled just as much as they had on the morning of her funeral.
I wanted justice. I wanted Calloway to pay. But in the back of my mind, guilt whispered to me. I didn’t see him in time.
I squeezed my eyes shut, breathing in deep.
Then, I grabbed my blazer and walked out the door.
The Courtroom
The courtroom was freezing cold, and the chair under me was stiff. Across from me, Calloway sat, his hands folded in his lap, his face unreadable. He looked like he hadn’t even bothered to shave.
I wanted him to look at me. I wanted him to know what he had done.
The lawyer called my name. My throat tightened as I stepped forward, my heart pounding in my chest.
“Can you tell us what happened that night, Maeve?” the lawyer asked.
I should have said that I didn’t remember the impact. I should have told them how we’d been laughing, talking about boys and pizza, when the headlights blinded us.
Instead, I swallowed hard, forcing the words out.
“We were on our way home. Then he hit us.”
There was a pause. The lawyer didn’t speak. Then, a voice from the other side of the courtroom.
“Maeve, who was driving?”
I froze. My heart skipped a beat.
“Your mother, correct?” The sharp-eyed lawyer tilted her head.
I didn’t know what to say. A memory flashed in my mind. My hand on the keys. My fingers on the wheel. The headlights.
I glanced at my father. His face was full of confusion. He shifted forward, but I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t tell him what I knew.
“I don’t know…” the words barely escaped my lips.
The Truth
That night, I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling. The air felt thick, like it was pressing down on me. And then, it hit me. I was driving.
The memory came back in flashes: Mom smiling as she handed me the keys. “You dragged me out of the house to fetch you, Mae,” she had said. “So, you drive, kiddo. I’m tired.” The rain. The headlights.
I was driving. I had been.
A sick feeling twisted in my stomach. My hands shook as I found my father in the living room. He was sitting on the couch, a glass in his hand.
“I need to tell you something,” I said.
He looked at me, his face full of questions.
“I was driving,” I whispered.
He didn’t blink. He didn’t speak. He just waited.
And then I told him everything. The keys, the rain, the headlights. How I hadn’t seen Calloway until it was too late.
His glass clinked as he set it down. I expected him to yell. To say it was my fault. But instead, he reached for me.
I broke down. The sobs came in waves, shaking my whole body.
“It wasn’t your fault, Maeve,” he said, his voice thick with something raw and heavy. “It wasn’t your fault.”
And for the first time in years, I let him hold me.
The Verdict
The next few weeks were a blur. Calloway took a plea deal. Less time in prison, but he admitted guilt. It didn’t feel like justice. It didn’t feel like anything. But I whispered to my mother’s portrait, the words I’d never said before.
“I’m so sorry, Mom. I love you. I miss you.”
And for the first time since the crash, I felt like she could hear me.
Healing
The next morning, Julia made waffles. Real waffles. With butter and syrup. I stared at them, confused.
“I caved,” Julia said, sipping her green tea. “Don’t tell the other vegans.”
A small smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Julia saw it and didn’t say anything. She just smiled back.
The journey ahead was unclear, but one thing felt certain: maybe, just maybe, I could find my place here. Maybe this house could become home.
I looked over at my father, sitting quietly on the porch steps, and realized it was time to rebuild. Time to start over.
I wasn’t ready to forget the past. But I was ready to move forward.
And that’s all I could ask for.
