“Is that what you’re going to wear?” My nine-year-old daughter, Mariah, assessed me from my bedroom doorway, her nose wrinkled. I studied my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. “Yeah. What’s wrong with it?” “It’s boring. I thought you were going to a party.” “It’s just my friends at the pub.” I frowned at the hunter green polo shirt I’d chosen because it was on the top of the pile in my drawer. Was that the problem? Or was it the khaki pants?
