The suit was navy blue.
Simple.
Clean.
Perfect.
My mother, Ruth, pressed one hand over her mouth.
She had that look mothers get when they suddenly see the man inside the boy they raised.
“Oh, Jesse,” she whispered. “You look so handsome.”
He smiled, embarrassed but pleased, and tugged at his collar.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Then he turned toward the hallway mirror and checked himself from the side.
“You’ve looked at yourself enough,” I said from the stairs.
Jesse grinned and ruffled my hair on his way down.
“You’re just jealous because I’m the good-looking one.”
“Your hair looks crunchy.”
“It’s called style, Tessa.”
My father, Paul, stood in the kitchen doorway with his coffee mug in one hand. He was smiling, but his eyes were quiet and proud.
