Marisa and I met at the park many years ago. She was a beautiful young woman—chestnut waves in her hair, lipstick perfectly applied, dark eyes that held something fierce. With her was her daughter, Stella, a small sprite of six or seven, with wild curly hair and restless hands, feet, and legs, beautiful eyes that looked away, fixed on things invisible to the rest of us. Sometimes, if you caught her glance for a second, it seemed to say: *What do you want? Leave me alone.* A child with autism, perhaps, or some other difficulty. I was there with one or two of my own nephews, who tore across the playground—slides, swings, wobbling ducks—in the company of their rowdy peers. Stella blended in. She may not have spoken, or spoke only a little. Maybe some gesture gave away a stubbornness sharper than the others'. But who noticed her in that cheerful chaos? I was captivated by Marisa instead. Serene, sure of herself, she talked easily with everyone, took an interest in the other children, kept an eye on Stella but without fuss. She simply watched her, with genuine love. It seemed to me that from her striking presence she was saying to the world: *Here we are—my daughter and I. What's the problem?*
But we stopped going to the park together. We saw each other now and then at reunions or parties, and then we lost touch. A few years later, I returned to the park with one of my younger grandchildren—and several more years on my face. I saw Marisa approaching from a distance. I knew her at once. I had changed; she had not.
Still beautiful, still elegant. Beside her was Stella. The eyes and hair were the same, but the small sprite had vanished. In her place stood a tall girl, heavy with extra weight, her gaze now more wary and serious—darker somehow, or perhaps simply turned inward. She moved without hurrying, but as she headed toward the swings, I caught something in her bearing: a determination, a physical force that made anxious mothers and oblivious toddlers step aside. The swings, always crowded moments before, gradually emptied. They swayed alone, desolate around her. *Such sadness,* I thought. *Poor Marisa. Poor Stella.* Only because something had changed in her outward appearance. Only because nature, as it does for all children her age, had run its course—had transformed her body, her personality, in ways that were not always easy to manage. She would become someone else, a grown woman. I thought all this confusedly while I clutched at Marisa's arm and talked rapidly to her, almost to distract her, to keep her from seeing what was happening around us. But Marisa was far more at ease than I was. She watched Stella, satisfied with her conquest, pumping hard on the swing, and she told me: "Stella's become a young woman now. Everything's gone well. She does so many things. My husband and I—we've always loved dancing. We used to go to a little disco near our place with friends and leave her with her grandparents. Now Stella comes with us, many Saturday nights, and you should see how she loves the music, how she laughs when her father dances with her. I made her a full, wide skirt—it spins when she spins around. It's beautiful."