“I don’t remember the crash. Not exactly.” It was raining, Mom was laughing, and Maeve was talking about a boy from chemistry. Then—headlights, screaming, blood. “Mom was sprawled across the pavement… her eyes wide and staring at nothing.” Someone said it was a drunk driver. Then, “The mother was driving.” Maeve couldn’t speak. But she knew—they were wrong.

She woke in a hospital bed. Her father, Thomas, appeared: “Hey, kid.” That’s when she knew her mom was gone. Two weeks later, she was in a strange house with Julia and a baby brother she didn’t want to know. Julia offered oatmeal and silence. Maeve walked away.

At trial, Maeve saw the man who hit them. “I wanted him to see what he took.” When asked who was driving, she said: “It was Mom.” But at night, guilt returned. “The keys had been in my hand.” She confessed to her father. He whispered, “It wasn’t your fault, Maeve.”

She overheard her dad say, “She’s a stranger to me.” It stung. Then she found her mother’s letter—“She talked about my fire. My brilliance.” Maybe she could try.

Calloway confessed. Julia made real waffles. Her dad said, “Just be here.” Maeve nodded. “Maybe I could still belong here. Maybe this isn’t the end… Maybe it’s the beginning.”