Exactly twenty-one days after my accident, I'm finally back home.

It feels like it's been years.

I'm snuggled in my bed with my luxurious silk comforter, amidst all my favorite pillows. It feels almost like my own room, but it's the renovated office on the first floor, with the remodeled bathroom, complete with handicap-accessible shower. My parents brought everything down from my room to make it feel as homey as possible. They had also gone to my dorm room while I was in the hospital and retrieved all of my belongings from MSU. That part seems kind of creepy, like I died or something.

In truth, a part of me did die, and not just my leg.

I can see that my mother has used the renovation as a reason to feed her shopping addiction. She bought new curtains and room-darkening blinds, a plethora of throw pillows, and a new lamp for the desk in the corner.

When we had first gotten home, my parents made me come straight to bed and insisted that they wait on me hand and foot. I will eventually have to get up and do things for myself, as much as I can in a wheelchair or with a walker. I had decided on a cool walker with a seat instead of the crutches. I never thought I would describe a walker as cool, but it will be very handy for when I get tired. The crutches had always felt wobbly, even when I was assured I was using them correctly, thus my decision to go for a walker until I'm fitted with a permanent prosthesis.

My dad comes in with a small lap tray. He has put an array of snacks on it, some crackers and cheese, some chocolate, and a cold can of Cherry Coke, my favorite.

"Dad, you really don't have to fuss over me."

"Sure, I do, Baby. You're alive, you're home. That's worth celebrating."

I gratefully accept his offer of affection and open my laptop. I post "I'm home!" as my Facebook status. Ten minutes later, I have 57 likes.

I have so many friends, I think.

But then why do I feel so alone?

My mind rewinds to last night and how much I enjoyed having Ethan kiss me. I was completely surprised, to be honest. I guess I knew that he was interested in me, but never in a million years would I have expected him to kiss me, or that I would allow it. I'd kissed guys before, but never three weeks after meeting them for the first time. But my relationship with Ethan has definitely been different from the beginning.

I close my eyes and remember how his lips felt on mind and a smile creeps onto my face. After a few minutes of quiet reverie, I open my eyes.

I jerk myself out of my reverie, wondering, What the hell am I doing? I can't think about a relationship with Ethan, for so many reasons. I castigate myself for even considering it. I'd been foolish to let him kiss me, to think our relationship could go there, and especially to give him the wrong idea by returning his kiss. Yes, he's funny, sweet, handsome, and yes, he saved my life! But I'm beginning to think Mitch was right, that maybe I am just falling for him because he saved my life. I don't like thinking that my emotions are manipulating my decision making. I can't let anything like that happen again, as much as I enjoyed kissing him. It could never work between us, so I have to stop entertaining that idea.

I return my attention to my computer. I check a few emails and then shut down. I let the tears fall freely now that I'm home and I don't have to worry about a random health care professional walking in at any moment. Tears turn into sobbing. I try to keep my volume down, but my dad overhears. He comes to sit on my bed and he just lets me cry while he wraps his arms around me.

When I finally stop crying, I tell him, "Somehow, I thought the nightmare would end when I got home. But my leg is still gone. It's more real than it was in the hospital. I'm broken and nothing can fix me." I weep some more onto my dad's strong shoulder. "And everyone is moving on with their lives except me."

He strokes my hair for several minutes. I love that my dad doesn't feel like he has to jump in to say something just to fill the space or to try to make me feel better.

"Daddy," I finally sob, "Will I ever be normal again?"

When he finally speaks, it's more of the wisdom that I admire in my father. "You won't ever go back to your old normal. But you'll create a new normal. You'll see. It seems impossible right now, but I promise you that life will be normal again."

Even though my dad traveled a lot, somehow he always made it up to me. What he lacked in the quantity of time he spent with me, he always made up in quality. I'm not quite sure I believe him now, but his wisdom has always proven true with time.

Before bedtime, my mom comes in to ask if I need anything.

"I want to see myself."

"Okay...." It's obvious that she doesn't know exactly what I'm getting at.

"I want to undress and see my whole body. I saw myself in the mirror at therapy. But I haven't seen myself here, at home. Without all my clothes on. You know?"

Mom nods.

I remove everything except my bra and underwear. My mom wheels the walker over to me, and I stand up as well as I can. She walks with me to the mirror. I lean on her as I push the walker out of the way.

I start by assessing my hair, my face, my skin. I've always liked my hair. It's got a nice amount of body today, a little wave and curl frames my face nicely. The hospital shampoo I used in the morning must be good stuff. I peer closer into my deep green eyes. Okay, so my face hasn't suffered any damage. I've never considered myself beautiful, but I'm content with my looks.

So far so good.

I scan down the mirror. I'm somewhat petite at 5'4", with an average build, I guess. I've never been slender, but I'm not overweight, for sure. My body has curves where they count. I scan further down, past my underwear. I'm glad I chose my matching pink and green polka dot bra and panties this morning. It's not like I bought them with the intention of having anyone else see them, but they make me feel pretty. And I need to feel pretty right now.

My mom is standing with me, in more than one sense of the word. I look at my left leg, still bruised and scarred, but getting better. My toenails, still painted from my mom's mani-pedi in the hospital, catch my eye.

I finally gather the courage to look at my right leg, or lack thereof, full on. I assess my hip and thigh, and the flesh that surrounds them.

The tears overtake me without any warning.

I force myself to look at everything for several minutes, through the haze of my tears and the shuddering of my body.

That's not me! I think. That can't be me, that one-legged girl staring back at me!

I'm crying so loudly that my father knocks lightly to see if everything is all right. My mother tells him to come in and I don't even care if I'm standing here in my underwear. They practically carry me back to my bed. My mom lies down next to me, stroking my hair while my dad covers up the both of us.

I don't know how long I cry, but it feels like hours. Just before I black out, I hear my mom whisper, "Te quiero, mi chiquita."

I love you, too, Mamá. I say it in my head because the rest of my body is too exhausted from grief.

I wake up the following morning, not even realizing that my mother had slept in my bed with me all night. For a brief moment, I forget about my disability. I throw the covers off of me and swing my legs to the side of my bed, and the sight of my stump reminds me that I'll never be the same.

"Good morning, mi chiquita," my mom greets me with what I consider to be too much cheerfulness for any morning, but I must have slept much better than I thought I would. My own bed felt wonderfully safe and warm.

"Morning, Mamá," I reply, trying to sound more awake than I am.

She yawns loudly and then sits up. "You have therapy at 11:00, so let's get a move on. I bought a bench for you to sit in the shower. Do you need any help getting situated?"

"I can mostly do it myself. But can you just grab some clean clothes for me? Probably yoga pants or something comfortable to move in."

"Sure thing," she replies while I pull the walker over to me. I hobble to the bathroom and successfully turn myself around so that I can sit on the shower bench. With the bathroom renovation, my parents put in a walk-in shower, which is much easier than climbing over the side of a tub. I sit down and strip off my clothes, throwing them to the corner of the bathroom.

Mom comes in and places a pile of clean clothes on the countertop by the sink. "Do you need anything else?"

I'd like to think I can do it all by myself, but I haven't been through the entire process of showering and getting dressed on my own yet. "Maybe you can stay in my room, and I'll call you if I need anything."

"Sounds like a plan," she smiles. I wonder what she thinks of my complete meltdown last night. I'm kind of embarrassed about that, but I guess I never really expressed all of my sadness until then. I had to get it out somehow. I'm sure it won't be the last time I cry over this, but I feel like some weight has been lifted.

Once I'm finished showering, I realize that I don't really have a dry surface to sit on while I get dressed. I can sit on the walker, but the plastic will be cold on my bum after that warm shower.

"Mom?" I call and she pops into the doorway. "Can you please lay a towel across the walker so I can sit there and get dressed?"

She does it quickly and then I surprise myself with the ease with which I transfer myself from shower bench to walker bench. I give her a proud little smile.

She watches until I'm dressed in underwear, bra and a warm shirt. I return to my bed and slide on my pants as best I can. At the hospital, I would just wear shorts, but March in Michigan is much too cold to go out in shorts.

Once I'm completely dressed, complete with one boot and my right pant leg rolled up so it doesn't get in my way, I stand up and I hobble to the door and I walk carefully out of the bedroom and my parents cheer for me as if I've just finished a marathon.

It's nice that they're so supportive, but also kind of annoying. I mean, I just walked out of my bedroom, hooray! Normal people do that every single day.

I catch sight of the kitchen table and it's decorated with good china and fine linens. "Mother," I say in a slightly whiny voice. "You really don't have to fuss."

She shrugs off my comment and says, "Come and eat before it gets cold." She made my favorite, blueberry stuffed French toast. I can't complain since, like I said, it's my favorite. I just wish they weren't making such a big deal out of ordinary things. I could understand if I was the valedictorian of my class at MSU. (I already earned that title when I graduated from high school, but college is a whole different ball game.) Or maybe if I won the Nobel Prize for some great invention. But this is almost humiliating, having them celebrate the fact that I walked from my bedroom to the table without falling.

Once we're finished, my mom brings my coat, hat and mittens and tells me to bundle up. I almost want to yell at her that I'm not five anymore, but I stop myself. I realize this must be hard on her, too and that she truly just wants to take care of me. I just don't want to be treated like a child, but if it helps them to baby me for a while, I need to play along.

Broadwell Physical Therapy is a large, modern building with huge windows adorning every side. Mom gets my wheelchair from the back of the van, while my dad opens my door and I fight my nerves. I wanted to use the walker, but my parents insisted on the wheelchair because of all the snow and ice. The wheelchair is a constant reminder that I have to rely on someone else to get me from one place to another, and I'm starting to despise it already.

I'm getting eager to meet my new therapist, although I doubt anyone will live up to Patrick. He was perfect, and I was sad when I had to say good-bye to him. I had asked Ethan yesterday if he knew who my therapist would be. His exact words were, "He will take excellent care of you."

We approach a rounded reception area. My mother is just about to greet the bubbly young brunette who smiles with the whitest teeth I've ever seen. Great, more perkiness.

But then I hear Ethan's voice in the hall. A moment later, he walks through a set of double doors with an older gentleman who's quite handsome, clearly his father.

He greets me with his standard kiss on the cheek, but he lingers just a bit, like he did before he left the hospital two nights ago. This time I feel a little awkward with our parents eyes on us. But just that small gesture reminds why I'm falling for him.

But wait, I'm not letting this happen, right?

Still, he makes me feel so protected and oddly enough, whole. I want to curse the confusion in my brain.

"Hi Sarah," he smiles gently.

He leans in and greets my mother with a kiss as well and then turns toward my dad, "You must be Mr. Stoker. It's nice to finally meet you."

"Marshall," my father informs him as he engages Ethan in a hearty handshake. Then he throws an arm over Ethan's shoulder and hugs him. His voice begins to quiver and he doesn't immediately release Ethan when he mumbles, "Thank you for saving my girl."

Ethan warmly responds, "Of course. I'm very thankful that I was there when it happened."

I can see that my dad's eyes are glistening when Ethan makes his introductions. "This is my dad, Charles Broadwell. Dad, this is Sarah, her mom Gabriella Stoker, and of course, her dad, Marshall."

"Nice to meet you, sir," I smile politely while everyone exchanges pleasantries.

"You've been through a lot, Sarah," Mr. Broadwell says. "We're planning to take very good care of you here."

"If it wasn't for your son, Mr. Broadwell, Sarah might not be here," my mom chimes in and my dad nods generously.

"Thank you. I am very proud of Ethan for his heroic actions," Mr. Broadwell grins.

Heroic. Ethan is my hero. I smile inwardly at the thought and I think I might just convince myself that it's okay to let myself fall for him after all.

"Are you ready to get started?" Ethan asks me.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I say with a big smile plastered across my face.

My parents follow us through the double doors and down a short hallway to Broadwell's own therapy gym. It's impressive, and the equipment is obviously state of the art.

Ethan locks the wheels on my chair and pulls out a temporary prosthesis, like the one I'd been using in the hospital.

"So, who is my new therapist?" I ask, feeling a bit confused.

"I am," Ethan replies.

* * * * *

Surprised? Or did you see that coming? :D