A mother writes to her fourteen-year-old daughter, Francesca, in the form of a letter. Francesca has a severe and extremely rare metabolic disorder about which almost nothing is known—a condition that has confined her to a wheelchair.
The mother writes at night in the hospital, during long vigils at her daughter's bedside. She writes to express her love for her, and so that one day Francesca, reading these words, can weave her own memories and feelings into them and reclaim her own past: "You will come to understand that life is not a fairy tale, and yet it is worth living. Especially when there is someone who loves you." She writes to pour out her own feelings—the overflow of emotion, the rebellion, the hope, the tenderness.
She tells of a hope that has always refused resignation, of a long search for God and a faith found again.
Many mothers will recognize themselves in her words.
As she writes, she does not know these pages will become a book. She writes with great naturalness, all in one breath, with clear and lucid words, holding nothing back. Her husband will later discover this long letter and submit the manuscript to the literary competition for unpublished works "Mothers and Daughters," organized by Famiglia Cristiana in 1995. The book will win the prize.
The words of the title "And Then We'll Talk About Love" capture the heart of the story itself. The author says it best: "They talked about love and sacrifice... Now I'm tired, sick, and absolutely fed up with hearing people explain what love and sacrifice are... from anyone who has never lived through either one themselves. You know what I say to you? To you, sitting there in your nest, teaching other people's healthy children? If you want to talk about love, you have to get out and throw yourself into the thick of it, into the fray. Have you ever cared for a sick little child night after night without rest? Have you ever felt a thorn in your heart at every whimper of a suffering child? Try it, just try! Only then will you be able to talk about love."
- Natalia Livi, 1997
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