My mother-in-law slapped me across the face at Christmas dinner.

The snow began falling softly over Yellow Springs at two o'clock on Christmas Eve, dusting the dark red roof of Frank’s barn like powdered sugar.

Inside the farmhouse kitchen, there was no schedule pinned to the refrigerator.

There was no checklist of mandatory arrival times, no dress code specifying cream, burgundy, or navy, and no strict prohibition against appetizers before five-fifteen.

Instead, the house smelled of simmering spiced cider, roasting garlic, and fresh cedar pine.

The living room was dominated by a slightly crooked, eight-foot Fraser fir that Frank and Ellie had cut down themselves at a local farm three days earlier. It wasn't decorated with color-coordinated, glass-blown European ornaments arranged with surgical precision.

It was covered in chaotic, joyful handmade decorations: paper snowflakes Ellie had cut with safety scissors, dried orange slices strung on twine, macaroni angels painted gold, and multicolored lights that blinked asynchronously.

Ellie was four years old now.

She ran through the living room wearing a bright yellow tutu over patterned thermal leggings, sporting a plastic reindeer headband that flashed red lights whenever she jumped.