Francesca is 35. At twenty, she left the islands of Cape Verde and came to Rome to work for a family on a regular contract. She was following the path her two other sisters had taken.
Her many other brothers and sisters, along with her parents, gradually settled in the Netherlands.
Francesca has always worked well. Well received, she first worked in the home of a cardinal; now she works a few hours in the home of a bishop who is also godfather to her daughter Sabrina, fifteen months old. Sabrina's father, an Italian, left—perhaps because of what the doctors told him right after the baby was born. It happens.
Now Francesca lives with Sabrina in a tiny studio apartment next to a group home run by some sisters who welcome, support, and help mothers in difficult circumstances.
It was at this house run by the sisters—a spacious ground-floor apartment with a small garden—that I came to know Francesca and Sabrina. The two of them are here often, because they think of it as their family. It is their refuge.
I already knew the place: I visit sometimes because I admire the sisters, because there is an air of home that does good to the heart. Children everywhere. Mothers. Strollers and carriages. Playpens, cots, cradles. There is some crying, naturally; but also cooing, and always—without fail—the smell of good cooking. That aroma of soup and apple cake that invites you to dinner without a word.
At the end of a hallway there is a small chapel, where Jesus in silence watches over this blessed house. And there is certainly need of his help, because life is not easy for those who live here. The children often cost their mothers their jobs. And if before a woman could live with friends, now she needs to find other housing.
When the child who is born has some problem... Francesca learned in the hospital that Sabrina has Down syndrome. The pediatrician explained to her patiently what that means. "Were you upset?" "A little, yes; I'm better now. For me, Sabrina is like any other child. I try to treat her normally. In my country, I never heard of Down children; there aren't any. My mother doesn't know anything about it either."
"Wouldn't you want to go to the Netherlands with your family?" "No. It's too cold there. I was there in August and I was always cold. No, I prefer to stay here in Rome."
"What is your biggest problem right now?" "It's paying the rent. To take Sabrina to physical therapy, I lost my old job. Now I only work a few hours. I'm looking for work from eight in the morning until two in the afternoon."
"How much is the rent?" "Six hundred thousand lire a month, plus electricity. I have a heater that uses a lot. The apartment is damp because it's under the stairs."
"What are your hopes, Francesca?"
Not many. For now, she hopes to stay with her little girl in the expensive studio; that way she can be close to the group home where she feels so good. "I'm here every Saturday and Sunday. I feel good here. Very good," she says with a smile. Here she feels "at home"—welcomed, supported, loved.
The future will be hard, her dark eyes seem to say as I stand to say goodbye.
It's true. It may be. But it could also happen—and we wish it with all our hearts—that her courage and her faith will bring it about that Sabrina, as she grows, will fill her brave and courageous mother's life with her affection.
Anyone who wishes to help Francesca pay the rent on her "home" can contact Ombre e Luci by phone or letter. Tel. 06/636106, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from 9:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.