I wonder if my son would have looked like her or me?
***
The doctors kept saying that there had never been a fetus, that it had been an ectopic pregnancy, that I had not lost the life of a child because it had never existed, that I was so young that I still had many years to have a child, that, that, that.
Seeing the condition I was in, an elderly doctor tried to explain to me what had happened. He spoke to me in technical terms that reminded me of some science class.
"Dear girl," the doctor concluded, resting his warm hand on mine, "there was nothing you could do to make things different."
Having received the medical explanations of what had happened did not relieve the pain for the loss of my son, nor did it take Filippo’s accusations of not being able to bear a child, of being half a woman, from my ears.
I came home still in shock.
And just a few days later I wanted to go back to
work: being constantly busy helped me to stop tormenting myself, albeit for only a few seconds, with feelings of guilt that overpowered me and made me short of breath.
At
work
everyone
treated
me
with
condescension, and this hurt me because it gave me the impression that in fact there really was something wrong with me.
That niche, which I had prepared for my son, seemed to petrify, and a wall, an insurmountable rock, seemed to rise up from nothing between me and Filippo, that prevented us from having even the slightest contact.
***
For a couple of years we sluggishly tried to have intercourse, no longer with the hope of being able to procreate.
Filippo snarled at me, and spoke to me only 41
when forced to, in monosyllables.
From the tests we had done it appeared that neither of us was sterile, but only that we probably could not generate a new life together.
The miles of distance between us increased.
One day I had the misguided idea to propose a solution to my husband that had been buzzing around in my head for some time:
"Filippo, I thought we could adopt a child, and besides if we really can't have one ourselves...
there are many children waiting for a family. You know, I talked to a colleague at the office and she told me that in a few months we could be able to...
"Could what?"
"Adopt a child..."
"Are you kidding? Raising whoknowswho’s child, break my back for a brat who doesn't even have my blood? You're really crazy!"
The vase, which was cracked, had broken into a thousand pieces with those words.
He dozes on the armchair in the living room, in a singlet.
I dream of running away.
But how can I do that?
My parents would die, they taught me that you don’t do certain things, they would no longer be accepted in the parish, they couldn’t even go to the baker any more to buy bread and milk.
A commitment is a commitment, and it must be kept even if it involves sacrifices, even if it involves a little unhappiness.
In my case I could have said without any doubt: even if it involves giving up living.
And so I continued to vegetate.
The years passed.
And winters followed autumns.
Everything is normal.
Everything, except my existence, which wasn’t even a little like the one I no longer dreamed of, not even at night.
5.
Seeking oneself
I’d been doing it for some time now, and I noticed that Pietro also reciprocated the shower of looks that I launched at him every day.
Like a little girl I barricaded myself behind pathetic excuses: if no one sees you it’s as if you’re not seeking his eyes, it’s as if you didn’t want him to tell you every morning that you’re beautiful.
And Pietro, placid and undeterred, continued to return my glances, not doing anything other than give me the hint of a smile that opened his lips and gave me a glimpse of his teeth, just enough.
But I was afraid that some of our colleagues would notice this game of glances, which gave me the pleasant and unfamiliar feeling that someone
noticed and appreciated me.
I wanted nothing more than this, to receive attention, to be noticed: I know, it may seem pathetic, but that’s how it was for me.
The management of the supermarket had
