I don’t remember the crash. Not exactly.
There was rain—gentle at first, then relentless, drumming like fingertips across the windshield. I remember my mom laughing beside me. My fingers tapped the wheel as I rambled about Nate, the guy in my chem class with a crooked smile and too much cologne.
She glanced over, smirking.
“He sounds like trouble, Maeve.”
Then came the headlights.
Too fast. Too close.
Then came the screaming.
I was no longer in the car. I didn’t know how I got out. My knees were soaked in mud, my hands covered in blood that wasn’t mine.
Mom was sprawled across the pavement, twisted wrong, her eyes wide and staring at nothing. I screamed her name over and over, my voice raw and tearing until the sirens drowned me out.
I heard someone mention a drunk driver.
Then another voice said, “The mother was driving.”
I wanted to say they were wrong. That it wasn’t her. That it was me. But my voice wouldn’t work. My mind couldn’t hold onto the words.
Then everything went black.
