There have been many times—especially in one particular stretch of my life—when I found myself on steep paths. Exhausting climbs, not passing struggles but the kind that make you doubt your most precious resource: yourself. That's when I received grace, and luck, and perhaps a gift as well: people around me who believed in me. Most of all, a dear friend—a blessed dear friend—but not only him. So Enrico, another friend of mine, is right when he says that if Juliet had had a friend, the story would have ended differently. The point is, at certain crucial moments I saved myself only because someone believed in me, and I built my own faith on theirs.
At some point I developed a desire to give back. I made a promise to myself that when I grew up, if someone felt they had no one to turn to, meeting me would prove them wrong. I promised that if someone needed a place to rest, I would stop there beside them. Not to offer my views, but simply to be there.
That "when I grew up" is now, apparently, because fostering came into my life. Part-time fostering of a thirteen-year-old boy—and I am unmarried, with no siblings, no children, no cousins, from a family of women only. But I had made a promise as a girl, and I could not back away from it.
He isn't a boy of many words, but as he got out of the car, he said one thing: "It was nice where we went today."
I met him for the first time in January, and I was anxious because I knew that the first impression we made on each other would matter. And it did. I took to him immediately, and I smiled at the way he watched me sideways while sitting next to me with the social workers present. In the weeks that followed, it was just the two of us, and I felt this strange sensation of standing in front of a small box, only half full—a container with only the essentials inside. Bit by bit, we will put things, places, and experiences into this box. And perhaps one day he too will feel the desire to give back to others.
But why tell this story here? Because Fede e Luce is an important part of my life, and necessarily, anyone who comes through me has to pass through the community.
The day came for him to meet us in Carugate. I told them he was coming, without much explanation, but my heart was full of fears because I didn't know what to expect. I will never forget that day. It was as if they had been waiting for him, ready to draw him into every moment—the circle, the games, the songs, the visit to the oratory—all without fanfare or declarations. And at the end of the day came the promise that we would see each other again. Once more, I saw the beauty of our communities, the natural grace of true welcome—the kind that asks nothing in return, not even gratitude.
But the most beautiful moment came at the end of a tiring day, when I was dropping him back at the facility where he and his family are staying. He isn't someone who says much, but as he got out of the car, there was a moment of hesitation and silence. Then he said one thing: "It was nice where we went today!"
