Early October, and all the communities in Rome have gathered to celebrate the opening of the new year. After Mass, we move to a snack area before the group games begin. It's a moment of pure joy: friends from other groups reunite after months apart, faces return after summer camps, and photographs and memories tumble out.
I look for Alberto and find him beside his mother, who is offering him a slice of cake. The tables buzz with confusion. We manage to grab glasses of orange soda and slip away. I reassure Annamaria that she can stay and chat while Alberto walks with me to meet the newcomers.
Alberto and I link arms like old friends, and we have fun playing the fool, greeting everyone we pass. But gradually I notice my companion forcing a smile. Underneath, he doesn't seem at peace.
Then, surrounded by all these people, Alberto lowers his head. I understand he needs to tell me something important. I lean close, and suddenly we are isolated from everyone else. Alberto is emotional, confused. After some hesitation, he whispers in a rush: "Dad stayed home. Why?"
How do I answer you, Alberto? How do I explain that sometimes the strain between parents grows so heavy that your father refuses to come celebrate because he has lost the peace he spent years, piece by piece, finally reclaiming? How do I tell you what is happening now between your mother and your father?
I squeeze your hand, look you in the eye, and speak to you as I would to a man, without hiding truths you know better than I do. "Your mom and dad had a fight. Your dad doesn't want to come to Fede e Luce anymore. Sometimes that happens. I know it hurts you, Alberto, and it hurts me too. We have to pray hard, Alberto. Will you promise me you will? I promise you I will too."
This is the second gathering this year. Today, instead of one long table for the whole community, we've arranged smaller tables so we can know each other better. They've placed my name card next to Alberto's. But Alberto doesn't want to sit. He wants to go home. When we're alone, I ask if he wants to leave because his dad is at home. He doesn't answer, but he sits down. When our table leader brings the food, Alberto starts fussing: he doesn't want to eat what's on his plate. First I joke with him, then more seriously, I try to convince him that we eat what we're offered, that it may be more or less appetizing but it's still food. Alberto digs in his heels. He's noticed I'm on edge too. So I shift tactics, and we strike a deal: I give him half my rice in exchange for half his pasta, and we race to see who finishes first.
While we wait for fruit, I try to talk with the new friends who came to Fede e Luce for the first time today. Alberto, who's a joker, gives me a small kick on the leg. I think he wants to play and, still talking, I kick back. The game continues, and I realize his kicks are getting harder. I stop talking with the others and look at him. In an instant, Alberto hits me lightly on the face. He's never done that before. I keep looking him in the eye and stroke his arm: "Alberto, why are you hurting me? I love you. What are you trying to tell me, Alberto?" And to reassure him, I tell him again and again that I love him. Right after, in a low voice and smiling, he says: "Sorry... I was just playing... I do more...." And he starts talking as if nothing happened. But I know he's troubled inside.
The other day at the parish, we held a celebration for four children from Fede e Luce who have returned to Jesus after silently showing us the mystery of the Beatitudes. More people came than expected. There are friends who knew the four children only through our stories. Among all these people, I look for Alberto's father. His wife hadn't told him about this gathering, but we'd reached him anyway. Once he learned what it was about, he asked exactly what time and where. "I'll be there," he promised.
And there he is, outside the church, a cigarette in his mouth. He stands alone, unwilling to join the rest of the group. He doesn't want questions, and I already know he won't say much. Yet he is here, and his presence speaks louder than all the stupid things we repeat at these moments. I embrace him hard, and we exchange only a few words, not a conversation. He doesn't need one. After Mass, a friend and I go pick up hot pizza for everyone. On the way back, we see Alberto's father alone outside. I ask if he wants to stay with us to eat and celebrate. He shakes his head. He says he doesn't know, that he doesn't understand these things anymore. Then, using the excuse of eating some pizza, he lets himself be persuaded and lights another cigarette as we head downstairs.
I lose sight of him and sit down to eat beside Alberto. Alberto is radiant. His hands dive into a plate of fries as he begins to talk and joke. We even sneak another piece of cake that they'd tried to take away because we'd already eaten three slices.
I look across the room. Pietro and Annamaria are sitting beside each other in silence.
I turn back to Alberto: "Are you happy that your dad came today too?"
His answer is his smiling face, nodding, while his hand wipes his mouth.
He grabs me by the arm: "Let's go celebrate with him!" And we run toward his father, dancing because we're happy.
- G., 2003