Serafina
By the time the Caruso car eased back through our gates, it was 4:30 on the dot. The stylist’s lacquered smell still clung to my hair, my makeup was locked in place, and I felt like a statue being ferried from one pedestal to the next.
My mother was already waiting in the foyer, hands pressed to her cheeks. “Thirty minutes!” she burst out, staring at the grandfather clock like it might explode. “Only thirty minutes, Serafina! Where are your shoes? Did Carmela pack the shoes? What if the zipper sticks—”
“Mamma,” I said, stepping past her toward the stairs, “breathe. Hair and makeup are done. I just have to put on the dress and slip into the shoes.”
Amelia trailed behind me, smug and unbothered, kicking off her pumps like she owned the floor.
“Zia, I’m on zipper duty,” she
