My mother sighed, suddenly serious. "We did what we had to do. She was just a child. And look, she's alive. She has a job. A life."
“A life in a wheelchair,” Lauren replied emphatically.
I rolled backward in silence, my hands trembling and my mind racing. Avoidable. Our fault. The words hit me harder than any car. Every memory I had—hospital rooms, surgeries, whispered conversations—transformed into something darker.
I didn't confront them. Not yet.
Instead, I went to my room, locked the door, and stared at my reflection for a long time. Then I did something none of them expected.
I picked up the phone and called the only person who had been there that day:
the retired police officer who had filed the original accident report.
Officer Daniel Brooks seemed surprised to hear from me after so many years, but agreed to meet. Two days later, I sat across from him in a quiet café, my hands clasped so tightly my knuckles ached.
"I don't know how to ask this," I said, "so I'll be direct. Was the accident really caused by a drunk driver?"
He didn't respond immediately. That silence told me everything.
—Emily —he said slowly—, your parents asked us not to discuss certain details with you when you were younger.
I felt a tightness in my chest. "Discuss what details?"
She sighed. "That day, your sister Lauren was driving. She was seventeen. She took the car without permission. You were in the back. Your parents were arguing in the front."
The world became blurry.
“Weren’t there any drunk drivers?” I whispered.
