The parking lot is full of Subarus and soccer moms toting grocery bags of bananas (because they are organic and full of potassium), honey-baked hams (because dinner must be both sweet and savory), and jumbo rolls of two-ply toilet paper (because the Port-a-Potties at the baseball field can never be trusted.)

Three children - two boys and a girl - trail after Mrs. Delaney, who is walking at an impossibly fast pace, pushing a fourth child in a stroller in front of her. The boys push each other around and the girl twirls around and around, making Mrs. Delaney dizzy. She already has a migraine. A boy, the older one, wants a hot dog, but there isn’t any time. The girl has a dance recital in two hours and she still needs a new dress for the after party.

Mrs. Rodney, standing next to the entrance, is waiting for Mr. Rodney, a neurosurgeon at the hospital downtown. They were supposed to meet a half hour ago to shop for a wedding gift for Mrs. Rodney’s sister. This morning, Mrs. Rodney was thinking about a custom glass sculpture, but she doesn’t want to seem cheap. She hates underdoing anything, even if it’s a present for her despicable sister who goes through marriages like old clothes. Mrs. Rodney thinks very highly of appearances though. Today, she is wearing an expensive white blazer and sleek, black pants, dressed for the gala the couple must attend tonight. She looks at her watch. The clock is ticking.

Deep in the heart of the parking lot, Mr. Johnson’s daughter wants to keep a cat she has found next to their car. He tugs her along; they already have a dog, and Rusty is just one mess after another. She looks like she wants to cry, but he leans down and promises her a big, sugary lollipop if she’s good. She won’t get it and she probably knows this, but she skips along anyway, swinging her ponytails back and forth as she bounces up and down. Mr. Johnson sighs in relief. His wife would kill him if he brought home another stray. And he’s right. She doesn’t approve of his actions most of the time.

In fact, Mr. Johnson’s wife just plain doesn’t like him. She always feels lonely and longing for someone charming and handsome to sweep her off her feet like in the romance novels she buys at the corner store. Mr. Johnson is neither very charming nor handsome. She thinks he has big fingers - too big - and he eats too much steak. She doesn’t like his barbecue either. She thinks Mr. Rodney’s is much better, especially on the Fourth of July, when he lets the bourbon loose on the grill. She runs the Orangeville Book Club, makes sandwiches for the homeless downtown, and regularly volunteers at the local elementary school where her daughter attends. She’s busy repainting her daughter’s room today. Her daughter loves lilac, but she’s getting turquoise, since the purples are much more expensive than the blues.

But Mrs. Johnson isn’t the only one busy at work right now. Mr. Rodney told his wife he was in a meeting, but like every other Thursday night, he’s lying. Sure, he’s at work, but there’s really no work being done. He thinks she should have figured out the truth by now, from the way he comes home after midnight sometimes, tie askew and jacket crumpled, but she’s oblivious. Always. Maybe she loves him too much, but he just thinks she’s dense.

Mr. Delaney is a general contractor. Whenever his neighbors have a leaky roof or broken door, he can fix it. But he can’t fix his marriage. He and Mrs. Delaney have four children now, despite that their parents never thought they’d even get married. They were high school sweethearts, and the relationship (the ultimate quarterback and cheerleader cliche, like you wouldn't believe) would never have lasted, had Mrs. Delaney not gotten pregnant senior year. They had a small wedding seven months in, but then she had a terrible miscarriage. They try to hide that, along with the fact that they hate each other. But they’re Catholic, and their parents would rather slaughter them than see a separation.

The parking lot is full of Subarus and soccer moms toting grocery bags of bananas (because they are organically sweet enough to cover up lies), honey-baked hams (because dinner must have enough stickiness to stop conversation), and jumbo rolls of two-ply toilet paper (because one never knows how much toilet paper is needed to staunch the flow of tears). Life is good.