I was serving tables when a billionaire guest lifted his wine glass — and I spotted a tattoo on his wrist. A red rose with thorns looping into an infinity sign. My mom has the exact same tattoo… in the exact same place. When I mentioned it, his glass slipped from his hand. And when he asked her name, his face drained of color.

I exist in the periphery of wealth. I am the hand that pours the vintage Barolo, the voice that recites the specials, the smile that never falters even when my feet are screaming in cheap black flats. I work at Cipriani, one of those New York institutions where the lighting is golden, the pasta costs more than my utility bill, and the air smells of truffles and old money.

Most nights, I am invisible. I serve CEOs, supermodels, and hedge fund managers who spend more on a Tuesday dinner than I earn in a month. I am professional. I am discreet. I don’t ask for autographs, and I certainly don’t ask personal questions.