Author's Note: Hello, everyone! I have never done anything like this before, so I'm a bit nervous. Normally I don't like to have people read my stories, but I figure it's time for me to be a little daring. I'm not an expert on most of the elements in this story. There are a lot of strong thematic elements, such as suicide and teenage pregnancy, which I have no expertise in. But I've tried to use what I've heard about these things to make it seem realistic. I have already written most of this story simply for fun, not for any particular reason, but it will probably take a while to get it all posted. Anyway, I would appreciate advice on how to make parts of this story more realistic.

Thank you.

Chapter 1

The Yellow House on Maple Street

On the corner of Maple Street sat a pretty yellow house, with a perfect lawn decorated with lovely flowers and nicely trimmed bushes. It was an old Victorian, with a wrap around porch, medium sized. A white fence cut off its backyard, which contained a neat garden, several trees, blossoming with pink flowers in the spring, and an old wooden swing set. The house was quiet and thoughtful. It was several years since children had sung and played within its walls. It had watched them grow and leave, many generations. It now was the home of a middle-aged couple, who's three daughters had once, not so long ago, ran through its halls, laughing and dancing. The swing set in the yard had been theirs, as had the dolls on display in its pink flowered guest bedroom. The way its mailbox tilted was also due to them, and the dent in the garage door. The house had seen its good days and bad with those girls. But now, all was quiet.

The paperboy rode by on a bike, flinging his papers with a quick flick of his wrist and amazing accuracy. He hurled a paper onto the house's porch, just as the front door opened, and a woman emerged. It landed right at her feet.

"Thanks, Jason!" she called after the boy, bending down to pick up the paper, a cup of tea in her hand. She tucked the paper under her arm and took a sip of the steaming tea. Closing her eyes, she breathed in the warm spring air, the smell of dirt and flowers, of rain, of growing things. Opening her eyes, she took it all in. Her blue eyes roamed over every blade of grass. She was the queen, the mistress of the house, cool and confident, beautiful and elegant. Her blond hair, though slightly graying, still curled gorgeously past her shoulders. She stood straight, a slight smile on her face. Her white night dress danced softly around her ankles in the morning breeze.

After several moments of blissful observation of the world around her, she sighed and gracefully made her way back into the house. "Oh, it's a beautiful day, sweetheart," she cooed.

Her husband looked up at her from his breakfast. "Did you get the paper?" he asked.

She handed it to him, one hand on her hip, and waited expectantly. He took it, opened it up, flicked it a few times, and began to read, taking no notice of her.

She stood there a minute longer, watching him, hurt. Then she smiled lovingly and sat down in the chair next to him. She continued to watch him, holding her tea in cupped hands, not sipping it, but just watching him. His ruddy-blond hair, which hung messily across his forehead, his rugged features furrowed in concentration, his blue eyes squinting, his brow wrinkled, his thin pink lips pursed- all these things she took in as only the most loving and caring wife can. She reached out her hand to wipe back his hair, and only then did he look up at her, exasperated.

"Sara, I'm reading. Don't you have something to do?"

"Sorry," Sara muttered. "It's just." She sighed; he had already gone back to his paper. "Never mind." She stood slowly and walked across the kitchen towards the stove.

"Oh, and honey," he began.

"Yes!" she turned quickly around, to find his face still buried in the paper.

"Could you get me some more coffee?" he finished, holding up his cup.

"Sure, sweetie," she smiled, though disappointment lined her face. She took his cup and filled it, then handed it back into his waiting hand.

"Thanks, " he said, not even giving her a glance.

She stood in front of the sink, her arms folded across her chest, still watching him, eyes full of longing, heart full of wishes she dared not utter. Peter Johnson was her life, her husband, the father of her children. She loved him more than life itself. Why wouldn't he listen to her? Why wouldn't he even look at her? He glanced at his watch and jumped. "Goodness, where'd all the time go?" He stood, folding the paper and taking a final gulp of coffee. "I've got to go."

"It's only 7:30!" Sara protested. "You don't have to be at work until a quarter to 9:00!"

"Look," Peter sighed, picking up his briefcase. "I've got an early morning meeting at 8:00 and I want to be." he tapped his watch, "ON TIME." He headed towards the door. Sara followed him.

"Why didn't you tell me that?" she pressed, not wanting to let him go.

He turned around, slightly annoyed. "It must have slipped my mind." He continued toward the door. "I'll be back at 5:00!" he called over his shoulder. He reached for the doorknob.

"Peter!" Sara's voice was louder than she meant for it to be.

He turned, alarmed.

She hurried toward him, "Have a nice day," she smiled, brushing his suit with her hands and straightening his tie. She leaned her face up to his.

"You too, " he smiled, ignoring the hopeful gesture, and once more reaching for the door.

Out of desperation, Sara grabbed his tie, pulling his lips down to a level with hers, and locked hers with his. She held him there for several seconds, pressing herself into him and refusing to let go. Surprisingly, he did not seem to mind too much.

When she finally let him go, lowering her leg from where she had wrapped it forcefully around his thigh, he looked at her quizzically.

"What was that for?" he laughed.

She grinned back at him. "Nothing," she murmured, shyly.

He laughed again, lowering his head once more, and pressing his lips against her forehead, then her left cheek, then her right, and once more touching her lips. He moved down to her neck, pushing his lips down her nightdress. She felt his lips on her breasts.

"I wish I could stay," he murmured.

She grinned joyously. This was what she had wanted all morning, all month, really. Finally, she thought, he's back. Maybe they could even go upstairs and.

But reality came over her in the form of a gawking, glaring neighbor. The front door was wide open. Gently, Sara pushed him away.

"I do too, but you can't." She drew back slowly, self-consciously buttoning up her dress. She once more straightened his tie and fixed his hair. "Have a good day," she smiled.

He brushed her cheek lightly with his hand. "You have a good day, too, my beauty." And with that, he stepped casually and confidently out the door. Sara watched him walk down the path to the car parked in the driveway and then slowly shut the front door behind him. She leaned against it, eyes closed for a minute, her brow furrowed, as if in deep thought. Suddenly, she opened them, jumping up.

"Oh my god, today is Friday!" And with that, she raced up the stairs to her bedroom.