Seventeen-year-old Maeve survives the crash that kills her mother, but the truth about that night haunts her. Sent to live with a father she barely knows, a stepmother who tries too hard, and a baby brother she refuses to acknowledge, Maeve feels like a stranger in her own life.

The accident replays in fragments—the rain, her mother’s laughter, the headlights too close. She wakes in the hospital, expecting her mother, but finds her father instead. Reality crashes down: her mother is gone. Two weeks later, she’s in a house that doesn’t feel like home, pushing away Julia’s attempts at kindness.

At the trial, Maeve faces the man who hit them. Calloway had been drinking; he shouldn’t have been behind the wheel. But when the lawyer asks who was driving, a lost memory resurfaces—her hands on the wheel, her mother handing her the keys. The realization sends her spiraling.

That night, she confesses to her father. Instead of blame, he pulls her into his arms. But later, Maeve overhears him admitting to Julia that he feels like a stranger to her, that he wasn’t there when she needed him. The words sting.

In search of comfort, Maeve finds a letter from her mother, written a year before, asking if her father was finally ready to be there. Maybe he is. Maybe she’s ready to let him.

For the first time, Maeve considers staying—not just in the house, but in the life she’s been given. Maybe, just maybe, she can belong here.