Rain blurred the windshield. Headlights smeared across wet pavement. Mom’s car was ahead, stopped at an intersection.
Then a second car pulled up beside her.
Valerie’s car.
The passenger window lowered.
There was no audio.
But I knew Mom’s face.
Even through rain and grainy footage, I knew terror when I saw it.
Valerie was shouting.
Mom shook her head.
The light turned green.
Mom drove forward.
Valerie’s car jerked into her lane.
Not enough to hit her.
Enough to make Mom swerve.
A truck entered the intersection from the right.
The video jolted as the driver behind them slammed his brakes.
Then impact.
I made a sound I had never heard myself make.
Grandma closed the laptop.
The room tilted.
“She caused it,” I whispered.
“We don’t know that a prosecutor can prove intent,” Grandma said carefully. “But we know she was there. We know she lied. We know your father lied to protect her.”
“Mom died thinking—”
I couldn’t finish.
Grandma did.
“She died trying to protect you.”
I thought grief had already taken everything from me.
I was wrong.
There are rooms inside grief.
You open one door, and there is another behind it.
And another.
And another.
Dad came to Grandma’s house that night.