He rubs his mouth and spits out, “The good sons. You know that’s what everyone calls you two in the family—the fucking good sons.” He laughs. “What a crock of fucking shit. If only they knew…maybe then I wouldn’t have to hear from my grandma ‘why can’t you be more like those twos, huh?’—or from my uncles, askin’ why I didn’t go to war like the Moretti brothers. Tellin’ me I should be a soldier, a leader like Thatcher. Tellin’ me to go play football like you. And then my sister Nicola, tellin’ me to be good like you.” I fixate on his jealousy.
