Chapter 5
The police reopened the investigation after reviewing the new information.
For years, Simone's death had remained an unresolved fatal collision.
The original report described a silver vehicle leaving the scene.
Investigators had interviewed witnesses.
Reviewed traffic records.
And searched for matching repair reports.
But the available evidence hadn't been enough to identify the driver.
Now we had Claire's statement.
Repair invoices.
Photographs.
And information from a former repair-shop employee.
The case was serious.
I knew that.
But nothing prepared me for watching Jordan sit across from a detective and describe the moment his childhood changed.
He was nineteen.
Tall.
Strong.
Usually confident.
But when the detective asked about his mother, he began crying.
"I was eleven."
I sat beside him.
He looked down.
"She promised she'd come to my basketball game."
My throat tightened.
Jordan continued.
"I waited."
His voice broke.
"Everybody else's parents came."
I closed my eyes.
He looked toward the detective.
"I kept asking Dad where she was."
Tears rolled down his cheeks.
"Then somebody came to tell us she'd been in an accident."
I reached for his hand.
He squeezed it tightly.
For years, I'd tried to help him remember Simone without being consumed by grief.
We celebrated her birthday.
Visited her grave.
Looked through old photographs.
But I'd never understood how deeply he blamed himself.
After the interview, we sat in my truck.
Jordan stared through the windshield.
Then whispered, "I told her to hurry."
My chest tightened.
"What?"
He looked at me.
"That morning."
His eyes filled.
"I told Mom not to be late for my game."
I closed my eyes.
He began crying harder.
"What if she rushed because of me?"
I turned toward him.
"Jordan, listen."
He shook his head.
"Dad—"
"No."
I gently held his shoulder.
"You did not cause that accident."
His face crumpled.
I continued.
"You were eleven. You wanted your mother at your game."
He began sobbing.
"That doesn't make you responsible."
For several minutes, I held him.
Then I whispered something I should've told him more often.
"Your mother loved being your mom."
His breathing slowed.
I continued.
"She would never want you carrying guilt for asking her to show up."
He nodded weakly.
But I knew healing would take time.
Meanwhile, Claire moved out of our house.
We arranged separate living arrangements while the investigation continued.
Maya stayed with me.
She was frightened.
Confused.
And struggling to understand why her mother wasn't coming home.
I didn't tell her every detail.
She was ten.
She didn't need to carry adult legal questions.
But she deserved honesty.
One evening, she sat beside me on the couch.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
"Is Mommy going to jail?"
My heart tightened.
I took a breath.
"I don't know what will happen."
She looked down.
"Did she do something bad?"
I hesitated.
Then answered carefully.
"Your mom has told investigators she was involved in a serious accident years ago."
Maya's eyes filled.
"Jordan's mommy?"
I nodded.
She covered her mouth.
For several seconds, she couldn't speak.
Then she whispered, "Does Jordan hate me now?"
My heart broke.
I pulled her close.
"No, baby."
She began crying.
"But I'm Mommy's daughter."
I kissed her forehead.
"And you're my daughter."
She looked up.
"That doesn't change."
I continued.
"You're not responsible for choices adults made."
She nodded.
Then whispered, "I lied about Jordan."
My throat tightened.
"I know."
She began crying harder.
"I was scared he'd tell you what Mommy did."
I held her.
"You were wrong to accuse him."
She nodded.
"But telling the truth now is the right thing."
She looked toward the staircase.
"Will he forgive me?"
I took a breath.
"Maybe. But you need to give him time."
She nodded.
For the first time, I realized both my children were victims of the same deception in different ways.
Jordan had lost his mother.
Maya had been frightened into helping hide the truth.
And now both were trying to understand what their family had become.
I arranged counseling for each of them.
Jordan met with Dr. Rebecca Miles, a therapist experienced in grief and trauma.
Maya began sessions with a child psychologist named Dr. Olivia Brooks.
I also started counseling.
Because I needed help processing the fact that the woman I'd married had hidden her involvement in Simone's death.
And I needed to learn how to support both children without allowing my own anger to control our home.
The first few weeks were difficult.
Jordan barely spoke at dinner.
Maya cried whenever she heard her mother's name.
Sometimes I lay awake wondering whether I'd ever feel normal again.
But slowly, we began building routines.
Breakfast together.
School pickups.
Homework.
Family walks.
Movie nights.
Not because those things erased the past.
Because they gave us something stable to hold onto.
Then one afternoon, Jordan returned from therapy carrying a small notebook.
He placed it on the kitchen table.
I recognized it.
The same notebook Maya had taken.
The same notebook that started the confrontation.
He looked at me.
"Dad, I want you to read something."
I hesitated.
"Are you sure?"
He nodded.
I opened it.
Inside were notes about Simone's accident.
Dates.
Documents.
Questions.
But near the back was a page titled:
THINGS I STILL REMEMBER ABOUT MOM.
I read slowly.
She always sang while cooking.
She smelled like vanilla lotion.
She laughed when I tried to act grown.
She never missed a birthday.
She told me I could become anything.
My eyes filled.
Then I reached the final line.
I don't want the last thing I remember about my mother to be how she died.
I closed the notebook.
Jordan was crying.
I pulled him into my arms.
For a long time, we held each other.
Then he whispered,
"Dad, I want to remember her living."
I nodded.
"Then that's what we'll do."
But the next morning, Rachel called with an update.
Investigators had obtained additional evidence from the repair shop.
The original work order had been preserved.
And it contained a note the employee had written eight years earlier.
I stared at the phone.
"What note?"
Rachel paused.
Then answered.
"The customer requested that the damaged parts be disposed of immediately."
My stomach tightened.
Then she continued.
"And the work order identifies a second person who accompanied Claire to the shop."
I sat upright.
"Who?"
Rachel hesitated.
"Her brother, Daniel."
May you like
I froze.
Because Daniel had been one of Simone's closest friends before she died.
