It’s funny how sometimes you don’t realize things about your family and events therein till so much later in life.
When I’d just turned four my mom and I got into a serious car accident. She claimed the brakes didn’t work when she’d applied them. The car rolled over three times and came to a violent stop deep in a farmer’s field. I barely remember the wreck1; that’s what I was told later. The old Vega sat in the yard after for years so I got to observe the destruction. The car was mangled. It’s amazing anyone survived. The cabin was crushed and it looked like it’d been stomped by a dinosaur. But I walked away without a scratch on me. My mom wasn’t quite so lucky and was in a wheelchair for a few weeks with some sort of pelvic strain but was otherwise fine.
But there’s something strange about it, I now realize. There were no other cars involved and the day was clear and sunny. There were no witnesses and the stretch of road was completely straight. My mom was also not an aggressive driver and was not prone to road rage.
What I do know about my mom, though, is that she really did not like being a mother and had attempted suicide later in life several times.
And here’s another thing: my dad rebuilt that car nearly from scratch. Also, he was a great mechanic. There’s no chance the brakes failed. Just none. His work was quality and the only way they would’ve failed is if someone had cut the brake lines.
What I think happened now, looking back after all these years, is that my mom decided she wanted to opt out of being a mother and me being alive and crashed that car on purpose. Except it didn’t work. We both lived. It probably changed her tune on dying, at least for a while, that brush with death.
Now, I do not know that my mom intended a murder-suicide. It’s just a guess. But given the evidence and knowing what I know about my mom, I’d bet on it. It’s far more likely than not.