I looked in the mirror of my cabin and saw a man who looked like he'd swallowed a porcupine. The blue plaid shirt was unbuttoned, the white one underneath seemed too… white. The new jeans — yes, I had a “new” pair I only wore to funerals and weddings — pinched my waist in a way that made me feel like a sausage in a casing.
This was ridiculous.
It was Christmas. Dinner in the barn. I needed to be there to greet the guests, help serve, make sure everything ran smoothly. In forty years of life, I'd never cared what I wore to the feast. Clean boots, a shirt that wasn't torn, and that was it. The hat was optional.
But not today.
Today, my hand had trembled choosing between the plaid and the black. Today, I'd wiped my boots until they shone. Today, I'd given my hair an extra brush, as if it
