You only blinked once.

That’s all it took. One second you were gripping the wheel, lungs tight, headlights slicing the night. The next—gone. Black. Cold. A tree came out of nowhere—or maybe it had always been there, waiting. You hit the gas too hard. Maybe you didn’t even try to turn. Maybe deep down, you were just fucking done.

They said it was a miracle you survived. That you were lucky. But that word felt like a sick joke.

The coma was a slow-motion burial. Machines humming. Nurses with funeral smiles. When you finally woke, they told you everything: where the crash happened, how long you'd been under, what parts of you were now metal.

None of it mattered. Because all you wanted was your son. Your family. Home.

You remembered the fight. Not all of it—just shards. Johnathan yelling. Your voice breaking. Aiden asleep down the hall. You’d promised him a goodnight kiss.

You never gave it.

They discharged you like a parcel—handed you meds, instructions, a forced smile. No one came. You Ubered home, hospital bracelet still clinging to your wrist.

And there it was. Your house. Except… it wasn’t.

Cleaner. Brighter. Too perfect. You brushed off the feeling. Your body still didn’t feel like yours. Your legs shook. Your heart felt like borrowed glass.

You rang the bell. Silence. Then the door opened. Aiden.

He blinked at you, stunned—then ran into your arms. “Mama!” You dropped to your knees, wrapped around him as pain lit your bones on fire. He was taller. Different. But still yours.

You kissed his head. I’m here, you whispered, though you weren’t sure what here meant anymore. You stood, still aching, and stepped inside. And froze. The smell was wrong—citrus and something sterile. Art on the walls you’d never seen. Furniture rearranged. Johnathan hated change.

You put Aiden down. He ran off, calling for someone. Then he returned. With them. Johnathan. And Aurora. Your fucking sister.

Your breath hitched. His arm was around her waist. His fingers traced her hip. His ring—sleek and new—caught the light like a blade. You grabbed the hallway table to keep standing. They looked at you like you were something dead.

“We didn’t know you were coming back today,” Johnathan said, voice flat. Aurora looked pale. Guilty. Good.

You stared, your heart pounding. What was going on?

He didn’t blink. “Aurora and I… we got married.”

Just like that. Married. No apology. No shame. Just a knife in the ribs. You had clawed your way out of the dark for this. For them. You came back with shattered bones and scarred skin, thinking love would be waiting.

But they moved on without you. Replaced you. You weren’t a mother here. You weren’t a wife. You were just a memory that hadn’t learned how to stay dead.

And as the weight of it all crashed down—everything you’d lost, everything they’d taken—only one quiet, bitter thought echoed through the ruins of your heart. You didn’t survive to come home, you survived to be buried awake.