Her name was Amanda.
I didn’t think.
I just drove.
Her house was quiet. Too quiet.
When she opened the door and saw me, her face changed instantly.
Like she had been expecting this moment… and dreading it.
“You left something for me,” I said.
She didn’t deny it.
She just stepped aside.
We sat across from each other in a small room.
Neither of us spoke at first.
Then I asked:
“Who are you?”
Her answer hit harder than anything else so far.
“I was supposed to marry Thomas.”
Everything inside me paused.
She told me everything after that.
Slowly. Carefully. Like every word mattered.
That day—the day my parents died—
Thomas was driving.
My father was in the passenger seat.
My mother was in the back.
They were on their way to meet her.
There was a curve in the road.
The car lost control.
And everything ended in seconds.
Thomas survived.
My parents didn’t.
I felt like I was watching someone else’s life unfold.
Not mine.
“Was it his fault?” I asked.
My voice didn’t even sound like mine anymore.
She shook her head.
“No.”
The brakes had failed.
Completely.
There was nothing he could have done.
But Thomas never believed that.
He carried it.
Every version of “what if.”
Every possible way he could’ve done something differently.
Every second.
For the rest of his life.
And then came the part that broke something in me completely.
