The more time that passes before it happens, the better. Usually that isn't the case on any given day of any given week. Life is all about running breakneck, half-exhausted, from one thing to another — the kids, the job, the bills, the PTA, the school concession stand, the cheerleaders' fund-raiser garage sale, the marriage ...

Sometimes I wonder if she's sleeping under there — the old Elizabeth Gallagher, the woman who seemed to have it all together. Or was she always just a fantasy? A figment of the hype she created eighteen years ago, when an unexpected pregnancy led to a hurried marriage between high school sweethearts? She was so determined to show all the naysayers that she could make a go of it, defy the statistics. Create the perfect family. A life to be proud of.

Pride is a steamroller. It'll clear the path for a while, but sooner or later it'll shift into reverse, and then ... look out. Maybe everyone else saw it coming, and that's why they're backing away lately.

And now this.

I gaze out the bay window of the house that was supposed to be our dream home. Even the oak trees have grown up now, resolving our original objection to building on two acres of centennial family farmland deeded to us as a wedding gift. The trees, once they grew, were supposed to make life in this house picture-perfect.

Fall leaves blow across what we lovingly call the family compound, the bits of seasonal color dancing into the yards of aunts, uncles, and cousins. Unfortunately, a layer of pretty colors can't fix what's wrong here. Nor can it remove the For Sale sign across the street — the one that makes me feel like a drugstore mannequin in a 1950s government staging area, about to unwittingly take part in a nuclear test. I'm just waiting for the bomb to drop. I know it's coming.

It couldn't possibly hit the mark on a worse day.

I'd like to get the kids off to school before it happens. See if I can cajole a hug — one that doesn't feel like it's just me hanging on. But chances are, if they can slip by and get to Jessica's car, they'll be gone like bank robbers on the lam. They'll probably be rushing, in danger of getting a tardy, Micah complaining that his big sister has made them late by lining her deep-blue eyes and fluffing her golden curls. She reminds me so much of myself in high school, it almost hurts. Exchange the blonde hair for brown, and our cheerleading photos would've been almost interchangeable side by side.

As they swerve out of the driveway, she'll give her brother a dirty look, just like I would have. She's frustrated with him for horning in on her senior year by choosing to take extra courses and graduate while he should still be a junior. She doesn't want him in her car, and he's only there because we force her to drive him. She saved her money for the car, but we pay for the gas and the insurance.

The kids most likely won't even notice the sign across the road. The one that will bring a blinding explosion and a mushroom cloud of family fallout as soon as Uncle Butch sees it. There's no way he'll sit still for his sister selling that property.

I let my head sink to the table, let my eyes close next to the bowl of steel-cut oatmeal that is both breakfast and supper after working a night shift. Something mild that won't make me throw up once it hits my stomach, which ha