My name is Roxy Davenport—the epitome of a suburban housewife.

For over twenty-five years, I have based my entire life off the ancient, mental code of ethics passed down from previous generations that I secretly nicknamed The Suburbia Handbook.

High school sweethearts must marry and the wife is to stay at home and raise the children while the husband brings home the bacon. All married couples must procreate and raise, at a minimum, two and a half children, preferably staggered in ages by three years. A woman’s job as housewife is to maintain a pleasant, always spotless home for her family. Check. Housewives must service their husband’s needs when the man’s urges overtake him, no matter how tired, sick, in pain, or stressed the wife feels.

For over twenty years, I adhered to the strict rules—until now.

After a series of traumatic events, my life spirals out of control, destroying each and every archaic, foundational rule.

Except Rule Number Eleven: One must defend their family, no matter what. This rule trumps everything else, even if the defense comes in the form of bodily harm to another.

Or until death do us part.

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