The warm July sun cast the world in a dazzling morning sheen. Golden rays glinted off water and steel both, setting the world alight in a yellow hue. It was the perfect day, fit for any activity, any pursuit, any possible flight of fancy.

What a shame that you and family had picked the stupidest one. Oh, it wasn't the idea itself that lacked any sense. The idea was sound. Road trips are a storied, proud American pastime. The open road calls to the heart of the unwary brood with a wanderlust that will not cease until it is sated. There is so much to see, a vast, open world of opportunity, intrigue, landmarks, tourist traps — the list goes ever on. There is no shortage of wonders in a nation so large.

No, the issue was entirely in execution. Renting an RV would've made sense. Purchasing a trailer would've made sense. Even trading in the small sedan for a more spacious station wagon would have been better than this. Alas, all these ideas, and more, were shot down by Amelia, your wife. She was a woman who knew what she wanted and understood perfectly how to get it. Unfortunately, what she wanted wasn't always intelligent, nor even reasonable.

In this case, it was plain stupid. This was a two-woman house. Their load was never going to be small. Yet, knowing this, she refused to upscale their transportation or add to their carriage, despite your timid insistence. Instead, she bulled over every meek objection, laying down a law that any reasonable court would have thrown out. In her court, however, she was judge, jury and executioner.

Sarah watched this all with naked hostility. Her unimpressed gaze flicked in turns from Amelia to you and back again. She scoffed, looked away, shook her head, complained, did everything except actually chip in and help. "Gosh, dad," she said, giving you an unimpressed look. "Can you hurry up so we can just get this over with?"

Amelia turned to Sarah with a frown. "You could help, you know."

"Yeah, sure," Sarah replied, rolling her eyes. "I'm gonna do all the heavy lifting you refuse to."

Amelia bristled. "Well, if you don't want to chip in at least a little bit, don't go complaining that it's taking longer than it should."

Sarah shook her head tiredly, glancing away. Pot, meet kettle. She could fight with her mother, but there was never any point to it. She had learned long ago that the more you resisted, the less you won. It might have been different if you had grown a backbone at some point and taken his wife to task, but the opportunity for that was long gone. Their dynamic was set and, at this point, Sarah was quite sure only death would change it.

The temperature, pleasant as it was, soon felt to you as the inside of a kiln. You were dripping with sweat as the final three bags, then two, then one, sat at your feet. That last one took you five minutes of jostling, pushing, cajoling, squeezing, and everything short of begging, just to finally slot into the car.

You stepped back, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. It came away glistening.

"Ugh, finally," Sarah murmured, pushing off the wall beside the garage door. "That took freaking ages."

"Just be thankful we got done before sundown," Amelia said, her scornful gaze fixed on you. "Honestly, if you'd just put a little more oomph into it we could've been on the road ages ago."

She had said that already. This was, what, the twelfth time? Thirteenth? You didn't dare point it out, not under anything short of torture, lest you entered into a very psychological kind only his wife could manage. Still, it was done, and now you could set out to actually enjoy your vacation — at least, as much as these fun-sucking harpies ever enjoyed anything.

That was your thought until the doors were opened and the space properly accounted for. Amelia's mouth was pinched in an expression of muted outrage, her breaths deliberately heavy. "You," she said, voice too steady. "Where in the hell are we supposed to sit?"

Amelia hadn't wanted to get a larger vehicle. This was the best you could do, but now, looking at it after the fact, it wasn't nearly good enough. There were just two seats available, and one was the driver's. That left a small spot on the backseat, suited for only one person.

Sarah threw up her hands in exasperation, starting towards the house. "Ugh! Whatever! This is so darn stupid! You two go. I'll stay. Enjoy yourselves."

Amelia turned around, her face twisting in a nasty look of something just shy of rage. "You will do no such thing!" she barked.

Sarah stopped. She turned, trying to look nonchalant, unbothered, eyes half-lidded, arms folded, but it was clear in the tension of her muscles, the stiffness of her posture, that Amelia's tone scared her. "And why not? There's no space in the car, Mom!"

Amelia scoffed. "Well, I'm sure as hell not sitting in the back. You and your father can manage, and I'll do the real work of actually driving us around." She waited for a response, throwing her hands up in frustration when nobody offered one. "Can I get a thank you?"

Sarah shook her head, then gave a smile so sugary-sweet it could only be fake. "Gee, thanks so much, Mom."

A few minutes later, you were slotted into the backseat of the car, one leg pressed up against a stack of suitcases (how many outfits do two people need?), the other compressed as best you could manage so that, when the door shut, it wouldn't slam down on you.

Sarah looked thoroughly unimpressed as she gazed down at your lap. She glanced into your eyes, shook her head in frustration for what must have been the thousandth time this morning alone, and muttered, "This is so freaking stupid."

But she knew, as well as you, that refusing wasn't an option. So, she sighed, gingerly stepped into the car, and did her best to park her ass down on your lap, hoping against hope that she wouldn't end up with a cramp in her butt from sitting on your thighs for hours.

"Just keep your hands to yourself," she murmured to you. "This is uncomfortable enough already. I don't need you making it worse."

Thus seated, Amelia cranked the engine, backed out of the driveway, and turned on the radio so she wouldn't be forced to converse with her two barely-tolerated passengers.

It was a tense drive for the first few minutes, a bad omen if ever you had seen one. This was going to be a long trip.