“I’m done watching you pretend you’re happy.”
Standing on the other side was a man I’d never seen before. Late 20s, well-dressed, and hands in his jacket pockets. He wouldn’t meet my eyes as he stepped in slowly.
“He was there that night,” Michael revealed.
My heart pounded. “What do you mean?”
The man stood just inside the doorway. Michael stood in the middle of the yard, and the rest of the guests sort of held their collective breath.
“My name is Greg,” the man said. “I was driving that night. Not Michael.”
The backyard went very, very still.
“He was there that night.”
I stared at Michael. He looked back at me without flinching.
“We were tired after the game,” Greg continued. “I insisted on driving. I lost focus for just a second. That was enough. Your daughter came out from the intersection on her bike. She was going too fast… and she lost control. I didn’t have time to react.”
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.
But the question that was already forming in my chest wasn’t about Greg. It was about the 17-year-old boy who sat in that courtroom, wept, and said nothing.
“I insisted on driving.”
“Why did you take the blame?” I finally asked Michael.
“Greg’s family had lawyers there within an hour. Good ones,” Michael revealed. “His father pulled me aside and said things would go easier if I didn’t complicate it. But I want to be clear: nobody forced me. I made a choice.”
