A rooster crow blared through the sound of early morning traffic.  Marissa smiled and stretched underneath her organic cotton duvet. Beside her, Dane’s muscular, tattooed arm draped over their son.  Oliver had crawled into their bed last night with his peach blankie and stuffed sloth, a victim of another nightmare.  Dane was so good with him. And he was a model father. As a session musician, he was able to stay home most days with Oliver, writing his own music in his basement studio.  It made her proud.

The rooster crowed again, insisting that Marissa put her feet to the floor.  She loved this house. They bought ten years ago for an amazing deal. The sellers, poor folks, had gotten in way over their heads financially and sunk further when the Recession hit. They were saved from bankruptcy when Marissa and Dane bought the house.  Over the years, Marissa had finished it Earth-conscious materials. Sustainable wood flooring, solar panels on the roof.  Even the paint was non-toxic. Last summer, they had gotten the chickens. Dane had built the hen house himself.  

You can’t control women.

Slipping into her Tieks, Marissa stepped into the misty air.  The feed bucket was in the garage and dew kissed her ankles as she walked.  The towering vegetable garden smiled at her from the corner of the yard.  A huge maple tree spread its branches protectively over the well-groomed yard. She was so glad that she protested when the city tried to cut the branches for the cable line.  It was her private paradise here.  Working as an environmental engineer sent her traveling often, but when she was home, she was at peace.  

The chickens were roosting happily in their nests.  She spread the feed and gathered eggs into the wicker basket.  The rooster, named Caesar, was separated in a pen. She wanted the eggs unfertilized.  Caesar crowed as she approached, admonishing her for his loneliness.  

“Sorry, buddy,” she said, tossing in some feed. “You can’t control women.”

Smiling, she made her way back to the house.  She would make an omelet, and with any luck the boys would be up soon.  Hooking the egg basket in the crook of her arm, she pulled the handle on the French door.  

It wouldn’t budge.

Taking a deep breath in, she tried again.  

Still nothing.

Marissa set the egg basket down with deliberate patience.  She worked out four times a week.  Surely she could open a sticky door.  Both hands on the wooden handle now, she gave an enormous pull.  

Not an inch.  

Marissa peeked through the glass and cursed into the soft morning air when she saw what happened. The latch had sprung when she closed the door to go outside and locked itself.  This was the third time this month that she got locked out of the house from this damn door.  Dane had promised he was going to fix it.  In fact, he told her that he had fixed it when she was in Tulsa last week for work.  Was he lying or just inept? 

The last time this happened, she had hidden a spare key under a box in the shed.  The rooster raced to the side of his cage and crowed at her as she stomped up the driveway.  “Shut up, Caesar!” she hissed.  She threw the shed door open and boxes tumbled to the floor, spilling their contents on the dusty floor. Goddamn him, she thought. He had said he was going to organize this too.  After a few moments of fumbling, she found the key. Shaking her head at the chaos in the shed, she told herself that she was not going to pick it up. Instead, she prepared the lecture she was going to give Dane as soon as she got back into the house.  As she stepped over the refuse, her heel crunched glass.  

The silver frame glinted in the sunlight and caught her eye. A much younger version of herself smiled next to the tanned face of the boy whose arm draped around her shoulder. The old ache made bile rise in her stomach. She picked up the broken frame and swallowed hard.  Placing it facedown on the shelf, she walked toward the house.

Want to re-read Chapter 1? Click here!