Which, in reality, is exactly what happened.
The Wasatch fault runs a total of 240 miles, but it's broken up in pieces. Ours is a perfectly straight line that can be seen all to perfectly from 123rd South.
Growing up, I was always dangerously aware that "we're long overdue for a major earthquake along the Wasatch fault." Which is kinda like telling a kid "you're extra-likely to lose your house and your family because of where you live." But that was never as scary as it seemed it was supposed to be, because, as I learned young, accidents happen. I also had that childhood/teenager healthy sense of invincibility, so there wouldn't really be an earthquake that would destroy everything I love. Not really. I mean, it might, but it wouldn't. It couldn't.
There are pleasures at home that simply couldn't be destroyed by an earthquake. The way we look at the mountains through our kitchen window, or the dozens of forts we built in the oakbrush or the ladybugs that love our deck. An earthquake couldn't destroy the deer that venture into the part of the yard you see out the window of the study or the sound of suitcases rolling down the hall or the columbines the bloom in June. No, earthquakes can't destroy my home.