Chapter 2 - The Backyard Gathering
The drive to my parents’ house in Littleton took forty minutes. Outside the window, the foothills of the Rockies rose against a sharp blue sky, majestic and indifferent.
Preston kept one hand on the steering wheel while his right hand rested lightly over mine on the center console. He didn’t say much, letting the radio play low. He knew my mind was racing through old landmines—every subtle dig, every unprovoked comparison Marissa had drawn since we were teenagers.
When we pulled into the gravel driveway of my childhood home, the scene looked ordinary enough. My father’s battered Ford truck sat parked near the side gate, its bumper sticker peeling at the corners. A string of faded plastic flags hung across the patio cover, snapping in the morning breeze.
Mom had set up three folding tables under the shade of the old elm tree in the backyard.
As soon as our car door slammed, the screen door banged open. My mother hurried down the wooden steps, wiping her hands on a floral apron. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back into a hasty clip, and her face lit up with genuine, anxious warmth.
“You made it,” she said, rushing forward to wrap her arms around me. She was careful not to squeeze my midsection, pressing her cheek against my shoulder. “Oh, look at you. You’re glowing, Sarah. Are you eating enough?”
“I’m eating plenty, Mom. Happy sixtieth.”
She pulled back and beamed at Preston, who stepped around the car holding a large, neatly wrapped gift box containing a high-end espresso machine we had bought together.
“Judge Hale,” my mother said, her posture stiffening slightly out of lifelong habit. “Thank you both for coming. I know how busy you are.”
“It’s a pleasure, Helen,” Preston said, his voice warm and easy as he kissed her cheek. “And please, on your birthday, it’s just Preston.”
Before my mother could reply, the back door opened again.
Marissa stepped out onto the porch. She was wearing a denim skirt and a tight yellow top, her blonde hair dyed a shade brighter than it had been at Christmas. She held a plastic pitcher of lemonade in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. Her eyes locked onto mine, sweeping over my loose linen dress and designer sandals before settling on Preston.
“Well, look who decided to grace us with their presence,” Marissa called out across the yard, her voice carrying an intentional edge. “We were starting to think the governor’s court required special permission to visit Littleton.”
My mother flinched. “Marissa, don’t start.”
“I’m just saying, Mom. Some people have to work for a living on Saturdays, while others just waltz in whenever it fits their schedule.”
Preston didn’t react outwardly, but I felt the micro-shift in his posture beside me—the deliberate tensing of a man who spent his days dismantling hostile witnesses. He stepped half an inch closer to me, forming a protective barrier between my sister and my swollen belly.
“Good morning, Marissa,” Preston said smoothly. “The drive from Denver was clear. How are things at the accounting firm?”
Marissa’s jaw tightened. She hated when people brought up her job at the local tax office, especially since she had spent years telling everyone she was practically running the department.
“Fine,” she snapped, turning back toward the kitchen. “Just fine.”
My father emerged from the garage then, wiping grease from his knuckles with a dirty shop rag. He looked older than he had last Thanksgiving, his shoulders slightly more rounded, his gait slower. When he saw me, his face cracked into a weary, genuine smile.
“Hey there, kiddo,” he said, tossing the rag onto a workbench. He walked over and gave me a careful hug, smelling of motor oil and old tobacco. He nodded respectfully to Preston. “Judge. Good to see you.”
“Dad, please, call me Preston,” my husband repeated with a patient smile.
For the first twenty minutes, things remained civil. We sat under the elm tree, sipping lemonade and eating dry potato salad. My mother fussed over every detail, asking about the nursery colors and my doctor appointments. I tried to relax, letting the warmth of the sun thaw the chill left by Marissa’s arrival.
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Yet, underneath the polite conversation, a current of tension pulsed. Marissa kept glancing at us from across the table, whispering something into the ear of her boyfriend, Kyle, a burly man who worked construction and wore mirrored sunglasses indoors. Kyle didn't like Preston; federal judges represented everything his anti-establishment podcasts warned him against.
I didn't know it then, but the fuse was already lit. The explosion was simply waiting for the right spark.
