Fridays nights were once a joyous family event, filled with calm debates and then ending with snuggling on the makeshift bed on the floor. It was an all-day planning experience, starting with everyone agreeing on a family-friendly movie that the four of us would enjoy. I took care of either buying the movie or renting it and making sure it was ready for the usual movie time – late enough that the kids stayed up later than their usual bedtime but early enough that when the movie ended, they still went to bed at a decent hour.

During the rush hour of breakfast on Fridays, we agreed on what type of pizza we'd have for dinner – usually, we ended up ordering two different pizzas. After all, getting two children of any age to agree on something was almost an impossible task. Popcorn would be popped and buttered to everyone's satisfaction – extra, extra butter on Jace and Justin's and a small amount of extra butter on Jenna's and mine –, ice cream was in the freezer in case anyone needed some sugar to calm down their salt intake from the popcorn, and individual root beers sat chilling in the fridge until the pizza was delivered.

Jenna and Jace would be showered and waiting patiently on their makeshift beds that I had set up earlier with blow up mattresses and whatever pillows and blankets I could find. Everything would be ready, so when Dad got home, he would have time to change into his sweats and plop down in-between Jenna and Justin. It was a weekly ritual. Unless on vacation, we never missed a family movie night.

During Justin's brief hospital stay, I had kept up the tradition, leaving the hospital earlier on a Friday. Although the setup had changed; instead of setting up beds on the floor, I collected blankets and pillows, and we lounged on the couch. It worked, and the kids were okay with the change. The movies served as a quick distraction for both the children and me. However, I sensed that all three of us silently missed the backbone of our family.

It was still a tradition, though, and therefore something we could all rely on, an activity that was meant to keep us close. But now, Friday night was a sitcom night. Justin laid on the couch and binged on one of his sitcoms, catching up on episodes he'd missed while in hospital.

It saddened me as I sat down next to him, falling into the permanent indentation where the cushion was worn out from Justin lying on it. I listened to the kids playing noisily on the Xbox in the game room. My hearted thundered, wondering if Justin would start yelling at them for being too loud. His tolerance for noise or anything, really, that he found annoying was extremely low. I hoped the phase would pass and once again we could live in a home filled with the noises of our growing children.

At times, the kids got very loud, but children were supposed to be like that. The noise hadn't bothered him before. I missed it all: the thundering of Jace and Jenna wrestling around upstairs, laughter coming from their lips, and Justin wrestling with them. I missed our family's noise.

It felt like the house was no longer ours; it was his.

"Ow," I bit out as Justin suddenly plopped his feet on my lap, his heels digging into my thighs. I squirmed under the heaviness, but his shoes only dug in more the more I moved. Yet he said nothing to me, just continued to watch TV, indifferent.

Sometimes I wondered if he even saw the TV or if he was just staring into space. At times, while he laid on the couch and stared away, I would watch his eyes. They seemed void of any sign of awareness of his surroundings. He appeared emotionless; he never laughed at funny moments in the show or showed empathy or compassion. His face never hinted at life; he was dead flat.

"Justin the couch is big enough for both of us," I protested, attempting to push his feet off of me. The heels dug in again, harder.

"Seriously, Justin, you're hurting me," I said, my face flaming up from embarrassment. Never before had I needed to plead to get him to stop something that caused me pain, physical or emotional.

"Yes, the couch is big enough, and both of us are sitting on it," he replied irritably.

"You're digging your feet into my legs," I hissed out, just as irritated, if not more, given the context.

"If you don't like it, move. Sit on the floor!" he snapped and smiled as he moved his feet slightly, hurting me again.

He looked at me then, his eyes daring me to say something else. Threatening me almost. It was a look I had never seen before.

My heart thumped against my chest. This was the first time I had truly felt scared of him, unsure of what he'd do if I protested again.

Looking away, I forced myself to concentrate on the TV. It was another crime show. Another murder that needed to be solved. I felt the pain the actors tried to portray, and the agony of the death of a loved one. I tried to stop the feelings, but they overwhelmed me. Each time an emotion increased, I thought I would choke on it. At times I would even replace the victim on the show with someone I knew – one of my parents or a sibling or a friend or even my own children. The show was fake, just made for entertainment, but I couldn't stop the thoughts in my brain. At such moments, my body tensed up, and the TV show felt real, the sorrow and pain almost taking me over.

I preferred to watch shows and movies that made me laugh. When Justin wasn't home, I would pop in a comedy and listen to the noise as I attempted to live my life normally – cleaning up the house, preparing dinner, and finishing anything that hadn't been completed the day before.

Nowadays, laughing was hard; it took a lot to force a laugh from my lips. It was easier to stay neutral. Emotion was weakness. No weakness meant no pain.

Not being able to concentrate on the show anymore, or it could have been that I just didn't care about it, I decided to get up. But the second I tried to, Justin stopped me, stretching his legs out even more, so he was practically pinning me to the couch. Vehemently, I pushed his legs and managed to get to my feet.

I hated this new part of him, absolutely hated it, and wanted it gone.

"Retard," he said under his breath as I began to walk away.

I wouldn't allow myself to look back at him, refusing to acknowledge that he would say anything like that to me. In the world I pretended to live in, the one where we continued to live like we did before his accident, he would've never spoken to me like that. That pretend world was filled with love, compassion, and patience. In my world, he was talking about the show. Yet I couldn't continue to live in my own creation. I had to return to reality.

Here, in reality, I knew he was talking to me. Our world was filled with anger, malice, and displeasure.

On the way to my room, I stopped in to check on Jenna and Jason to remind them to keep it down, repeating the same excuse I always used – Dad has another headache.

Once I was in the bedroom, I locked the door against the reality outside of it. The bed was unappealing, so I sat in the recliner I had pulled into the room the day Justin had been released from rehab. Closing my eyes against the harshness of the world, I craved a few moments of peace and hope.

That morning, almost six months ago, after the nurses from Golden Bridge Rehabilitation Center had called me to tell me that the doctor had approved Justin's release, I'd been so excited. It was almost unbelievable that he would be home only fifteen days after his accident. Giddiness that I hadn't felt since high school burst out of me.

"Come around noon, he has to finish up with physical therapy and occupation therapy. We can't believe how fast he is recovering. The doctor will talk to you more about his release details when you get here," Janet, the head nurse had crisply informed me over the phone.

I remembered the day so clearly in my head. I allowed the day to play out in front of my closed eyes, taking in each moment, looking for the signs I must've missed from the universe that his homecoming wouldn't be as great as I believed it would be...

The kids were at school, and it was a few hours until noon. The house was spotless for Justin, and I pulled his old recliner down from the game room into our bedroom. In the hospital, he always slept in a sitting-up position. When I asked him about it, he said it helped him sleep better. What I wanted was him to be comfortable at home so his healing process would continue.

Returning to the present, I ran my hand over the worn, thin brown material. Resting my head on the soft back of it, I felt the onset of tears. Good thoughts, I told myself, fighting them back. All will get better. It's only been six months since the accident. It will get better...

"Neurological recovery can go on for years and years. But the way he is after two years is most likely the way he'll be," Dr. Hanson said at Justin's discharge meeting.

"Most improvement or changes in his behavior will happen within twelve-twenty-four months after the injury. His injury happened only twenty-seven ago. The progress he has made is a miracle, as you know." Dr. Hanson sat behind his massive Cherrywood desk. The desk so large it left little room for anything else.

"I am just happy he gets to come home." I practically bounced in the chair, being in his office felt like being in the principal's office when I was in high school. He stared at me as if waiting for me to confess to something I may have done. My skin itched to get out of the room –

out of the facility – and never return. I just wanted to sign the release papers and drive Justin home, where he would feel all the love we had for him.

"You have the booklet we gave you when he was admitted, with all the possible side effects of a brain injury?" he asked, shuffling through Justin's medical chart.

"Yes, all three of them," I replied, wanting to roll my eyes.

Everyone had stuffed the booklet in my face, highlighting different parts of it, reminding me that he could change – either a lot or a little. I had read the booklet many times, even crying over all the potential side effects.

No booklet would ever truly prepare a person for this though.

"He'll need to make it to the orthopedic for his arm and to monitor the other fractures he got in the accident. The first appointment is already scheduled," Dr. Hanson continued, reading from the folder. His tone agitated my nerves; I hated the man. I hated his cruel, truthful comments and the way he dashed my dreams about returning to a normal life. I wanted to be free of him and his judgment.

"Does he need to come back here for any checkups?" I asked, my front teeth toying with my bottom lip, attempting to appear in control. I wanted control back because everyone had taken it from me. My once scheduled life was now chaotic and being controlled by others. I hated feeling like I had no say in anything that happened in my day.

"No," he stated. He pushed aside Justin's folder and took off his glasses. "I'll be frank with you, the only reason I am releasing him is because we need the bed for a more severe patient. Justin is not ready to go back to work. He is not ready to take on duties as a father or a husband. He may never be able to take on those roles again. He has a hard time knowing the truth from fantasy. I have high hopes for him, but you should be prepared for the worst. You seem not to understand that your husband may never be your husband again."

My heart pounded with anger. How could he say such things? If he isn't ready, then he shouldn't be discharged. More anger shot through me.

Closing my eyes against the red that clouded me, I said nothing to him, just nodded, refusing to believe that Justin wouldn't return to normal.

A loud crash from the living room brought me back to reality, away from the past. A past where I should have listened to the people around me, warning me. Closing my eyes, I still refused to think about what mess I would have to pick up now. My dry, wilted lips twitched, deepening the frown that had found its way permanently on my lips.

This is my life, I thought to myself. One bigmess. A mess that was waiting for me to clean it up. The only problem was thatI had no idea how to. Inside my brain, I was aware mess was still being madeand wasn't close to being done. The only thing I truly worried about was if Iwould survive the mess.