"No," he replied. "Lauren was speeding. Your mother turned to yell at her. Your father grabbed the steering wheel. The car went out of control."
I couldn't breathe.
“The reason it was classified as a hit-and-run,” he continued, “was because her family insisted it was the only way to prevent Lauren from being charged. Criminal record. Jail. They said it would ruin her future.”
“And what about me doesn’t matter?” I asked, my voice breaking.
Brooks looked at me with something close to regret. “I argued. But legally, your parents had the final say back then.”
I returned home numb, every movement mechanical. That night, I asked my parents to sit down. Lauren joined us, arms crossed, already on the defensive.
“I know,” I said simply.
My mother burst into tears. My father looked away. Lauren didn't apologize.
"You would have ruined my life," she snapped. "I was young. You survived."
“You survived?” I laughed bitterly. “You stole my choice. My truth.”
Then I told them what I had done next: I requested the sealed records. I contacted a lawyer. And I planned to go public, not out of revenge, but to demand accountability.
Silence filled the room.
"You can't," my father said weakly.
