Rafael Moretti
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Thanksgiving at the Moretti household was always dramatic. Every year, our family gathered at our house. The table was set for thirty-six people with twenty staff who moved like they were invisible, only showing up whenever they wanted to refill a glass or put more food or clear plates without even waiting for someone to ask them.
Someone was playing the piano somewhere in the corner like we were royalty instead of just rich.
Our dinner usually started at one. That was lunch to me, but my parents thought otherwise so there wasn’t much I could do.
I was on my third whiskey when my aunt Aurora leaned over the table. She was whispering but everyone could hear her as she spoke. “So, Rafael, this girl… Serena? Is it serious or just a phase?”
“It’s just a phase,” my mot
