Seventeen-year-old Megan survives the devastating car crash that tragically claims her mother's life, but the haunting truth about that fateful night continues to torment her waking hours and invade her dreams. Suddenly uprooted from her familiar life, Megan is sent to live with a father she barely knows, a stepmother who tries a little too hard to connect, and a baby brother she stubbornly refuses to acknowledge. Amidst this unfamiliar and emotionally charged environment, Megan finds herself at a critical crossroads. She must ultimately decide: will she continue to run from the painful memories of the past, or will she finally gather the courage to confront the truth head-on and discover where she truly belongs in this new reality?

I don't clearly remember the exact moment of the impact. Not really. The details surrounding that horrific instant remain frustratingly blurred, lost somewhere in the trauma.

I vividly recall the rain, though. It started as a gentle drizzle, a soft patter against the windshield, and then gradually intensified, becoming a heavy downpour that drummed relentlessly against the glass. I also remember the sound of my mother's warm and comforting laugh echoing in the car as I excitedly told her all about Nick, the cute boy who sat just two seats ahead of me in our challenging chemistry class.

I remember the way she glanced over at me, a knowing and slightly teasing smirk playing on her lips. "He sounds like a bit of trouble, Megan," she had said with a playful glint in her eye.

And then I remember the sudden appearance of the headlights. They were too close, blindingly bright, and approaching far too fast. The next thing I can clearly recall is the sound of my own desperate screams, frantically calling out for my mother.

Somehow, I found myself outside of the mangled car. The memory of how I got there remains a complete and unsettling blank. My knees were instantly soaked in the cold, muddy earth, and my hands were inexplicably covered in blood, although I instinctively knew it wasn't my own.

Mom was lying motionless on the hard pavement, her body twisted at an unnatural and horrifying angle. Her eyes were partially open, staring blankly up at the stormy sky, seeing nothing in particular. I screamed her name over and over again until my throat felt raw and burned with the effort. I desperately tried to shake her awake, hoping it was all some terrible nightmare, but she remained completely still and unresponsive.

Then, the piercing wail of sirens grew louder and louder, cutting through the heavy rain and the surrounding darkness.

Rough hands were suddenly pulling me away from her side, a muffled voice saying something about a drunk driver being responsible for the accident. Another, more authoritative voice countered, "No, the mother was driving the vehicle."

I gasped, a strangled sound escaping my lips, and tried desperately to tell them that it had been me behind the wheel... but the words seemed to catch in my throat, refusing to form coherent sentences. The world around me began to spin violently, my stomach twisted into a painful knot, and then... everything faded into blackness.

I slowly wake up in a sterile hospital bed, the unfamiliar surroundings gradually coming into focus. A dull, aching fog still clung to my skull, making it difficult to think clearly. There's a kind-faced nurse bustling around the room, checking monitors and adjusting my blankets. The rhythmic beeping of various machines fills the air, a constant reminder of my precarious situation. I can hear the distant, muffled murmur of voices echoing in the hallway outside my room.

My throat feels incredibly dry and scratchy, and my limbs feel heavy and strangely disconnected from my body. The door to my room creaks open, and for a fleeting moment, my heart leaps with a desperate hope that I'll see my mom standing there. For a horrible, fleeting second, I actually think that maybe the entire horrific event was just a terrible, vivid dream.

But then my father, Tom, steps into the room, his presence solid and undeniably real.

He looks noticeably older and more weary than I remember. The last time I had actually seen him in person was... Christmas? Maybe two years ago? The details of our last encounter are hazy and difficult to recall. He hesitantly sits down on the edge of the bed beside me, pausing for a moment before gently placing a rough, unfamiliar hand on mine. "Hey, kid," he says softly, his voice thick with an emotion I can't quite place.

And just like that, the last vestiges of my denial shatter. I know with a chilling certainty that this isn't just a bad dream. She's really gone. My mother is truly gone, and my life has been irrevocably altered in an instant.

Two weeks later, I wake up in a house that doesn't feel like mine, a place filled with unfamiliar scents and an unsettling silence where my mother's laughter used to echo. Julie, my stepmother, is in the kitchen, humming a cheerful tune that grates on my raw nerves. The air is thick with the smell of something earthy and vaguely sweet, a scent I don't recognize. I stare blankly at the bowl she carefully sets down in front of me at the kitchen table.

It's a bowl of plain oatmeal, topped with a sprinkle of flaxseeds and a handful of plump blueberries. "I also added some hemp hearts," she says brightly, as if this is the most normal thing in the world. "Hemp seeds are really good for you, honey. Lots of healthy fats and protein." Her forced cheerfulness feels utterly out of place, as if my entire world hasn't just been ripped apart. As if my mother isn't dead and I haven't been unceremoniously dropped into this strange house with its bland, beige walls and a baby brother, Dylan, whom I barely even know exists.

I numbly pick up the spoon, the cold metal heavy in my trembling hand. I stare down at the bland, unappetizing contents of the bowl, my stomach churning. Then, I slowly set the spoon back down on the table with a soft clink. Julie watches me with a concerned expression, gently tucking a stray piece of her perfectly styled hair behind her ear. "Not feeling very hungry, love?" she asks, her voice overly solicitous.

The truth is, I am hungry. Ravenously hungry, even. But I don't want this healthy, virtuous meal. I want greasy diner waffles, piled high with whipped cream and drenched in sugary syrup. I want to be driving to Sam's Diner at midnight with my mom, splitting a plate of fluffy pancakes and laughing until our sides hurt at the goofy guy who always falls asleep in booth number six, his head resting on a stack of napkins.

Instead, I simply shake my head slowly and deliberately push the bowl of oatmeal away from me, the gesture final and dismissive. Julie hesitates for a moment, her smile faltering slightly, and then she slides a small, round protein ball across the polished surface of the table towards me. It's one of her many homemade concoctions, probably made with dates and rolled oats. Her attempt at an olive branch, I suppose? I pointedly ignore it and make no move to take it. "Megan," she sighs softly, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice. "Your dad will be back here soon. He just went out to get some more diapers for—"

I abruptly stand up from the table before she can even finish her sentence, the sound of my chair scraping against the floor echoing in the sudden silence. I don't want to hear any more about this unfamiliar life. I don't want to know any more about this strange new family I've been thrust into. I just want my old life back, my mother back.

Court

I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my unfamiliar bedroom, surrounded by a growing pile of discarded clothes that just don't feel right. The first dress I tried on felt far too formal and stiff for the somber occasion. The second one made me look and feel like a little kid playing dress-up. The third was too tight, too revealing, too wrong, and definitely not me.

What exactly does one wear to watch the man who tragically killed your mother sit on trial and face the consequences of his actions? The thought sends a shiver down my spine.

I finally grab a simple black blouse from the hanger. Its dark color reminds me of the morning of her funeral, a day that still feels like a blurry nightmare. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed that morning, surrounded by every single black item of clothing I owned, trying each one on, only to quickly rip it off in frustration.

Nothing had felt right that day. Nothing could possibly make me feel even remotely ready to face the unimaginable task of burying my own mother. I vividly remember standing in front of the mirror that morning, staring at my own reflection with swollen, puffy eyes that barely resembled my own. My hands trembled uncontrollably as I carefully buttoned up a satin blouse I had never actually worn before, a garment that felt alien against my skin. Mom would have undoubtedly told me that none of it really mattered in the grand scheme of things.

"They'll all be far too busy looking at that beautiful smile on your face, my sweet girl," she would have said with her usual comforting warmth. "Or that gorgeous, shiny hair of yours." But I hadn't been dressing for them, for the other mourners. I had been dressing for her, for my mom.

Now, on this equally somber morning, I do up the very same buttons on that black blouse with fingers that tremble just as much as they had on that devastating day.

I desperately want justice for my mother. I want Carter, the man responsible for her death, to pay for his reckless actions. But in the quiet corners of my mind, a persistent whisper of guilt still lingers: I didn't see him in time. Maybe if I had been paying closer attention...

I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, trying to block out the intrusive thoughts. I take a slow, deliberate breath, attempting to regain some semblance of control over my racing emotions. Then, I grab my black blazer from the closet, straighten my shoulders with a newfound sense of determination, and walk out of the door, ready to face whatever the courtroom holds. Justice first, I tell myself firmly. Guilt can wait for another time.

The courtroom is uncomfortably cold, and the hard wooden seat beneath me feels stiff and unforgiving. The man sitting across from me at the defendant's table, the man who so carelessly took my mother's life, stares down at his folded hands, avoiding any eye contact. His ill-fitting suit is noticeably wrinkled, and his jawline is shadowed with several days' worth of unshaven stubble. He doesn't look remotely sorry for what he has done.

Carter. That's his name. The name that has become synonymous with my grief and loss.

He had been driving under the influence of alcohol that night, his judgment severely impaired. He had already had his driver's license suspended once before due to a similar offense. He should have never been behind the wheel of a car that night.

I desperately want him to look at me. I want him to see the profound impact his selfish actions have had on my life, on my family.

The lawyer calls my name, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet courtroom. My throat suddenly tightens with anxiety as I slowly step forward towards the witness stand. The room seems to tilt slightly as I take my seat, and I can feel the frantic pulse hammering in my ears.

"Megan, can you please tell us, in your own words, what you remember happening on the night of the accident?" the lawyer asks gently, his voice calm and reassuring.

I should simply say that I don't remember the impact, that the details are hazy. I should say that my mother and I were just talking about stupid, everyday things... about boys and pizza and the heavy rain, until those blinding headlights suddenly appeared out of nowhere.

Instead, I swallow back the rising bile that threatens to choke me and take a deep, steadying inhale. "We were on our way home," I say, my voice surprisingly steady. "And then he just... hit us."

I wait for the next question, anticipating it to come from my own lawyer. But instead, it comes from Carter's lawyer, a woman with sharp, piercing eyes and an even sharper, more accusatory voice.

"Megan, can you please tell the court definitively, who was driving the vehicle at the time of the collision?"

I go completely still, my breath catching in my throat. There's a noticeable pause in the courtroom, a silence that feels far too long and heavy.

"Your mother, Mary, was driving the car that night, correct?" she asks, tilting her head slightly to the side, her gaze unwavering.

I don't say anything aloud. I simply nod my head slowly in reluctant agreement. But as I do, something profound and unsettling shifts deep inside me. A fragmented memory, long buried beneath layers of shock and grief, suddenly surfaces.

The distinct feeling of the car keys resting in my hand. The familiar texture of the steering wheel under my fingertips. The sudden, blinding glare of the oncoming headlights.

Oh, my God. No. No, that's not right. Is it? My mind races, trying to reconcile the memory with what I've believed to be true.

The memory was becoming clearer, sharper. The persistent brain fog that had clouded my thoughts since I left the hospital was slowly but surely lifting... and suddenly, the true, unvarnished events of that horrific night were beginning to flood back into my consciousness. Everything had been so hazy and distorted in the immediate aftermath of the accident. I had been so completely focused on the devastating loss of my mother, rather than the specific details of the crash itself...

I instinctively glance over at my father, who is sitting in the gallery. His forehead is creased with concern, and he shifts forward slightly in his seat, a look of confusion and dawning realization flickering across his face. I suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to run, to disappear, to escape the weight of this resurfacing truth.

"I... I don't know..." comes out of my mouth instead, a barely audible whisper, so quiet that I'm not even sure if anyone in the courtroom actually hears me.

The Truth

That night, I find myself sitting alone in my unfamiliar bedroom, staring blankly up at the ceiling. The air in the room feels thick and heavy, almost suffocating. But the newly recovered memory refuses to leave me, replaying itself over and over in my mind.

I see it now, as clear as day. Mom smiling gently as she handed me the car keys just moments before we got in the car.

"You dragged me all the way out of the warm house just to fetch you, Megan," she had said with a loving sigh, a hint of playful exasperation in her voice. "So, you're driving, kiddo. I'm feeling absolutely exhausted."

I remember the familiar warmth of the leather of the steering wheel beneath my hands. I remember us laughing together, sharing stories and silly jokes as we drove. I remember the rain, starting out light and then gradually getting heavier, the rhythmic drumming against the roof of the car.

And then, those sudden, blinding headlights appearing out of nowhere.

I was driving the car that night. It was me behind the wheel.

A cold, sick feeling twists sharply inside my stomach, a wave of nausea washing over me. I feel like I might actually throw up. The weight of this realization is crushing.

I eventually find my father in the living room. He looks up from his spot on the couch as I enter, his eyes weary and shadowed with grief. He's holding a glass of something amber-colored in his hand, swirling the liquid thoughtfully.

"I... I need to tell you something," I manage to say, my voice barely above a strained whisper.

He nods slowly, his gaze steady. Waits patiently for me to continue. "What's up, Megan?" he asks softly.

I sit down on the edge of the armchair across from him, my hands twisting nervously in my lap. The words feel thick and heavy, sticking stubbornly against my dry throat. "I was the one driving the car that night."

He says nothing in response. He doesn't even blink, his expression remaining neutral and unreadable.

I swallow hard, trying to moisten my dry mouth. "She... she let me take the wheel. She said she was really tired, especially since I had asked her to come and pick me up from Nick's house. She just gave me the keys... We were talking about... just life, you know? And then the rain started to come down harder, and I just... I didn't see him, Dad. I honestly didn't see him until he was right there, right in front of us." My voice breaks, the carefully constructed dam of my emotions finally cracking. My breath comes in short, sharp, ragged gasps. I feel like I can't breathe.

His glass clinks softly as he sets it down carefully on the coffee table. I instinctively brace myself, expecting him to yell at me, to tell me that it's all my fault, that I'm the reason she's gone. Instead, he reaches out a hand towards me, his eyes filled with a surprising tenderness.

And in that moment, I completely break down.

The sobs come quickly, violently, shaking my entire body with their force. I instinctively fold into him, the immense weight of my guilt and grief finally crushing me. His arms tighten around me, holding me close, and for the first time in what feels like years, I allow myself to be held and comforted by my father.

"It wasn't your fault, Megan," he says, his voice rough and thick with an emotion I've never heard in it before. "It wasn't your fault, sweetheart."

I desperately want to believe him. God, I really, truly want to believe him.

"Go to sleep now, Megan," my father says gently, his hand stroking my hair. "Just try to sleep it off, and we'll talk about everything again tomorrow, okay?"

We can hear Julie moving around in the kitchen downstairs, the clatter of dishes and the soft hum of her voice drifting up the stairs. She's probably making another batch of those incredibly healthy protein balls that I still haven't brought myself to try.

"Okay... Dad," I mutter softly, pulling away from his embrace and walking towards the stairs. I stop at the top of the staircase, my hand resting on the cool wooden banister. Below me, the kitchen light spills out into the darkened hallway, casting a soft, warm yellow glow against the surrounding shadows. I can hear the low murmur of voices, tired and hushed.

It's my father and Julie talking quietly in the kitchen.

I take another hesitant step closer to the top of the stairs. I know I shouldn't listen to their private conversation. I know it's wrong. But then I hear my father's voice, and I can't help myself. "She told me, Jules," he says, his voice low and weary. "Megan... she was the one driving the car that night."

I instantly stop breathing, my heart pounding in my chest. A cold, sharp feeling spreads through me like ice water in my veins. The only sound in the hallway is the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room. Silence stretches between them in the kitchen below.

Then, I hear the soft, familiar clink of a spoon against ceramic. It's probably Julie stirring her nightly kombucha. She drinks it religiously every single night, swearing that it does wonders for her digestion. I don't know why my mind focuses on such a trivial detail in this moment, except that it's somehow easier than fully processing what my father has just revealed.

"Mary had given her the keys," he continues, his voice still rough and strained, as if he hasn't slept soundly in weeks. "Megan had been out at Nick's house. She called her mother and asked her for a ride home." There's a long, heavy pause in the conversation, the silence thick with unspoken grief and regret.

"If she hadn't asked... if Mary had just driven them straight home..." He doesn't finish the sentence, the unspoken words hanging heavily in the air between them.

My fingers curl tightly around the smooth wooden banister. My fingernails dig into the polished surface of the wood. I've had that very same thought a thousand times since the accident. If I hadn't called Mom that night. If I hadn't needed a ride home. If I hadn't gotten into that car with her...

Julie finally speaks, her voice soft and carefully measured, as if she's gently choosing each and every word before she says it.

"You can't keep thinking like that, Tom," she says quietly, her tone filled with concern.

"Can't I?" he counters, his voice laced with a bitter undertone. There's a short, humorless chuckle and the distinct sound of a kitchen chair scraping against the linoleum floor.

My father exhales slowly and heavily, a deep sigh that sounds like something inside him is slowly breaking apart. "I look at her, Megan, and I... Look, I love her, I truly do. But she's... she's practically a stranger to me, Julie."

My breath catches sharply in my throat. I've already tragically lost one parent in this devastating accident. But something about hearing my father speak about me in this way, with such a profound sense of distance, makes me feel like I'm on the verge of losing another one.

"Sharing a birthday every other year? A rushed Christmas morning together? That's not really being a father... That's more like being a..." his voice suddenly falters, choked with emotion. "I just... I wasn't really there for her, was I?"

His words hit me like a physical blow, a sharp fist to the ribs that steals the air from my lungs. I press my forehead against the cool, painted wall of the hallway, tears pricking at my eyes. My chest aches with a deep, unfamiliar pain. I know my father loves me, deep down. I truly believe that he does.

But love, I'm beginning to realize, doesn't automatically erase years of distance and absence. It doesn't magically make two people truly know each other. It certainly doesn't fill the vast emptiness left by years of missed moments and unspoken words. And right now, standing here in the dimly lit hallway, I honestly don't know if it ever will.

The Letter

I still have the entire weekend stretching out before me before I have to return to the cold, sterile courtroom to hear the final verdict in Carter's case. But after unexpectedly overhearing my father and Julie's deeply personal conversation the night before, I honestly don't know how I'm supposed to simply exist in this strange new reality.

I'm lying in bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling, the weight of my father's words pressing down on me. The air in the room feels thick and heavy, almost suffocating. But the vivid memory of my mother handing me the keys that night, the memory I had tried so hard to suppress, won't leave me alone. It replays in my mind over and over again, a constant reminder of my own role in the tragedy.

I'm still in bed the next morning when I hear Julie moving around in the hallway outside my room. She's carrying Dylan, who has been crying loudly, his little voice echoing through the quiet house, clearly wanting someone to pick him up and comfort him.

"Momma's here now, my sweet little boy," she coos softly to the baby. "Did you honestly think I wasn't coming to get you? Momma will always come and get you, my precious little one..."

Her gentle voice trails off as the baby responds with a series of happy coos and gurgles, followed by the soft sound of Julie showering him with loving kisses on his tiny face.

I suddenly miss that so much. The simple, unwavering knowledge that my own mother would always be there for me, no matter what. That she would always be there to catch me every single time I stumbled and fell.

But now? Now I have a father who I know loves me in his own way, but who openly admits that he struggles to truly see me, to understand who I am.

I honestly don't know how I'm going to manage to get through this entire weekend, but I know for certain that I'll be staying mostly in the relative solitude of my room, trying to process everything. Maybe I'll finally bring myself to go through that old wooden trunk filled with my mother's personal belongings that's been sitting in the corner, untouched. She was always putting her most important and treasured things into it, carefully storing away memories.

"One day, when absolutely everything else in our lives is gone, Megan," she had once told me with a wistful smile, "all we'll truly have left are these little things that tie us to our greatest and most cherished memories. You'll find most of mine right here, in this very trunk. For me, anyway."

I really don't want to read the letter that I know is tucked away inside. I don't even want to hold it in my hands. But when I unexpectedly found it nestled inside a small, green velvet jewelry box amongst her other keepsakes, I couldn't bring myself to put it back. There's just something about gently touching my mother's things, something about the tangible connection to her, that makes me feel... almost alive again, even amidst all this overwhelming grief.

The folded paper is incredibly soft and slightly yellowed with age, and the edges are gently curled from the passage of time. My mother's familiar handwriting slants slightly to the right, the letters looping and delicate, just like I remember. It's so incredibly familiar that it actually physically hurts to look at it.

I know I should probably just carefully fold it back up and put it away for another time, when I might be stronger. But my hands tremble uncontrollably as I slowly unfold the fragile paper.

And then, I begin to read the words my mother wrote.

Thomas,

I don't honestly know why I'm even writing this letter. Maybe it's because I know you'll likely never actually read it. Maybe it's because I'm just so incredibly tired, emotionally and physically. Or maybe it's because Megan is finally asleep upstairs in her bed, and I just finished kissing her goodnight. And for the first time in a very long time, I found myself wondering if I truly made the right choice all those years ago.

She's so brilliant, Thomas. Stubborn and messy and so, so incredibly alive. And sometimes, late at night when she's sleeping, I can't help but wonder...

Are you finally ready now? Could you possibly be the kind of father that she truly needs you to be in her life?

I honestly don't know the answer to that question, and I won't ask you directly. But I do know this one thing for certain: she'll be sixteen years old very soon. And she still has time, Thomas. So much precious time left. And maybe, just maybe, if you truly try with all your heart, she'll eventually let you back into her life.

Mary

My breath catches sharply in my throat. Mom wrote this letter almost exactly over a year ago. The blue ink is slightly smudged in a few places, as if she had hesitated to fully commit her deepest feelings to paper... as if she had almost stopped herself from writing it down at all.

She had actually thought about this. She had truly wondered about it.

I press my trembling hand over my mouth, squeezing my eyes shut tightly against the sudden rush of tears.

She was always supposed to know everything. She was supposed to be right about absolutely everything in my life. But this letter proves that even she wasn't always certain. She had her own doubts and uncertainties.

And if even she, my seemingly infallible mother, had her doubts about things, then maybe, just maybe, I can allow myself to have some doubts too. Maybe my father truly was ready to finally be there for me, in the way I've always needed him to be...

I exhale slowly, my gaze drifting back to the old wooden trunk sitting in front of me. Her things. The tangible pieces of her life, now all that I have left of her.

I let my gaze wander around the unfamiliar room, taking in the details. This room that still doesn't quite feel like mine. The walls are starkly blank, devoid of any personal touches. The shelves in the corner are completely empty. It's as if I've subconsciously been waiting for some kind of escape hatch to magically appear, waiting for the perfect moment to finally decide that I don't truly belong here and fully embrace that feeling.

But what if I just... stopped waiting? What if I actually chose to stay here, in this house, with this new and unfamiliar family?

I think about Dylan's tiny fingers wrapped tightly around my own during the brief moments I've held him. I haven't fully allowed myself to truly connect with him yet, still feeling too raw and overwhelmed by my grief, but deep down, I know that I would genuinely love to get to know my baby brother. I think about Julie standing in the bright kitchen, surrounded by her healthy food and her strange, unwavering optimism. I even think about my father, sitting alone on the front porch night after night, silently carrying his own heavy burden of ghosts and regrets.

Maybe... maybe there's still time for us to become a real family.

The Verdict

Carter ultimately takes a plea deal. It means less prison time for him, but it also requires a full and public admission of guilt for his actions. It doesn't feel like true justice to me. In fact, it doesn't really feel like anything at all.

But as I stand quietly in front of my mother's framed portrait hanging on the living room wall, I finally whisper the words that I never had the chance to say to her that night: "I'm so incredibly sorry, Mom. I love you more than words can say. And I miss you terribly." And for the first time since the devastating crash, I genuinely feel like she somehow hears me.

Healing, Slowly

Julie doesn't bring up the trial or the verdict at all. But the very next morning, I walk into the kitchen to find a plate of golden-brown waffles sitting on the table, waiting for me. Real waffles, not some healthy alternative. With real maple syrup in a glass pitcher and a pat of creamy butter melting slowly on top.

I stare at the unexpected breakfast, a wave of conflicting emotions washing over me. Then I look over at Julie, who is calmly sipping her usual cup of green tea at the kitchen counter.

She simply shrugs her shoulders, a small smile playing on her lips. "I caved," she says with a conspiratorial wink. "Just please don't tell the other vegans, okay?"

Something unexpected tugs at the corner of my mouth, a feeling I haven't experienced in what feels like forever. A genuine smile, small and hesitant, but undeniably real. Julie sees it and her own smile widens in response. She doesn't say anything, just offers me a warm and encouraging look.

I slowly pick up my fork, the weight of it familiar in my hand. Maybe, just maybe, this unfamiliar house could actually start to feel like a real home after all.

"You know what you really need to do?" Julie says suddenly, as if she's somehow reading the jumbled thoughts swirling around in my head. "You need to do something that's really going to make this house feel more like your own home. Why don't you plant some of your mom's favorite flowers in the garden? That way, you can see them blooming and think of her whenever you want."

"Okay," I say quietly, the idea actually appealing to me. "I think... I really like that idea."

But before I do anything else, before I start trying to make this house feel like home, I know that I have to finally have a real conversation with my father. We desperately need to clear the heavy air between us if I'm ever going to truly start to heal from all of this.

I eventually find my father outside, sitting alone on the porch steps, his head resting in his hands. The air is cool and carries the faint, slightly unusual scent of Julie's weird lavender candles. She lights them every single day, swearing that they help to calm the energy of the house. I used to secretly roll my eyes whenever she did it, but now? After a few weeks of living here, I honestly don't mind the subtle fragrance so much anymore.

I quietly sit down beside him on the porch step. He glances over at me, a look of mild surprise on his face. "Did I... did I disappoint you, Dad?" I ask hesitantly, the question hanging heavy in the cool air.

"What? Oh, Megan! Never, sweetheart! I was just... honestly shocked when you finally told me the truth about the accident. You had kept it hidden from absolutely everyone for so long."

"I didn't actually hide it, Dad," I explain softly. "Not intentionally, not at first anyway. I genuinely didn't remember exactly what had happened right away. I just remembered being in the car with Mom, seeing the bright headlights coming towards us, and then the very next thing I could recall was being on the ground, and Mom... But the memories have slowly been coming back to me in pieces. It was a terrible accident, a mistake."

He sighs deeply, the sound filled with a weariness that goes beyond just physical exhaustion. "I know, baby," he says gently, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "I think... I just wasn't truly prepared to suddenly be a real father to you, not in the way you needed. Of course, I'm your dad, biologically. But I've mostly been your father from the sidelines for so many years, never really up close and personal. And then this... this whole tragedy just caught me completely off guard. And honestly, I just didn't know how to properly help you through such a profound loss."

"I'm trying to help myself," I say weakly, the words barely audible.

"I know you are, sweetheart," he sighs again. "But that's also my job as your father, Megan. Your mom would have wanted me to be there for you, to help you. But I feel like I've been doing a pretty lousy job of it so far."

I stare straight ahead, my fingers twisting nervously in my lap. The unspoken words feel heavy, like stones in my chest. But I finally manage to say them anyway. "I... I want to try to start over, Dad," I confess quietly.

I instinctively brace myself for hesitation, for skepticism, for him to shut me down. Instead, something in my father's tired face softens, a glimmer of hope perhaps.

"I know I've been awful," I admit, the words stinging slightly on the way out, but I don't take them back. "To you. To Julie... But especially to Dylan. I haven't even picked him up once since I've been here. I haven't played with him or even really acknowledged him. He's just a baby, Dad. He doesn't deserve to be ignored like that." My throat suddenly tightens with emotion. "He deserves so much better than what I've been giving him. I promise you, I'll try to be better."

"You don't have to be perfect overnight, Megan," my father says gently, his eyes filled with a surprising warmth. "Just... just be here with us."

I blink rapidly, nodding my head quickly before the tears that are threatening to spill can actually fall. "I... I want to paint a mural in his room," I blurt out suddenly. I don't even know where the idea came from, but it just feels right. "Something fun and colorful. Dinosaurs, maybe. And I'm even going to learn how to make vegan curry with Julie. I mean, I'll probably hate it, but still, I'll try."

My dad shakes his head slowly, a genuine chuckle finally escaping his lips. And then, hesitantly, he reaches out and pulls me into a comforting embrace. And this time, I let him. For the first time in a very long time, I allow myself to actually believe that maybe, just maybe... this new life won't be so bad after all.