Our friendship began more than ten years ago. I had been attending the San Roberto community for a few months, but my hesitant approach to new social connections, combined with Massi's own careful way of testing the waters before showing warmth, meant I mostly watched from a distance. There was this tall blond guy who seemed to hover between isolation and belonging, never quite settling in one place.
Then one day, we found ourselves face-to-face in one of his favorite corners. We looked at each other, and he gave me one of those radiant smiles—the kind I would come to know so well. "What's your name?" "Massimiliaaanoo." Another smile. And just like that, our friendship began. It never stopped.
Looking back on these ten years now, I can barely hold the rush of images together. They tumble over each other in no particular order, but they all share something: the feeling of a life shared day by day. This became possible because of something I felt immediately in Massi's home—a sense of ease and welcome. And it extended everywhere: walking through the neighborhood, sitting in cafés, traveling together, spending summers at camp.
Fede e Luce in general, and Massi in particular, have been my ongoing education. One of the most important things was watching his mother's worry about his future transform over time. I witnessed anxiety become vision, anguish become strength of spirit, and the hard work of imagining certain details become a clear, determined grasp of what matters most—what would shape his fragile son's life, both now and later.
Gradually and naturally, I became part of that vision. It rests on a single will: to preserve for Massi the quality of life he has now, and above all, to let him live it in his own home. Perhaps this is where the real force and ambitious vision of his parents' project lies. They want to guarantee their son something that for any able-bodied person would never be questioned: the right to live in your own home, to keep doing the things that give your life meaning and rhythm. For Massi, that means swimming, riding horses, making music, working with a speech therapist, seeing his friends, walking, singing within the walls of his house.
Massi carries a serious diagnosis. He is not independent. Some days he floods the world with smiles; other days he tests the patience of everyone around him. Vision alone is not enough. You need something anchored to reality—something that makes concrete planning possible. After research and consultation, his parents chose a legal tool for Massimiliano's future: the Trust in Favor of Persons with Disabilities, established under Law 112/2016, known as the "Dopo di Noi" law. It is an inter vivos act—a document created while the parent is alive—that binds certain assets to the exclusive benefit of the disabled person. The parent who establishes it writes a detailed description of the life that must be guaranteed to the beneficiary. Beyond the legal tools and the vision, though, you need people to make sure the life plan doesn't stay a dream. And so here I am: the future trustee, suddenly looking ahead to a tomorrow we all hope is very far away. Then there are the future guardians—a title that sounds more like the guards of the Iranian revolution than what they actually are: the people you turn to when you need to know you're making the right choice. And around it all, the fertile ground of collaborators and friends.
I am proud, worried, fulfilled, afraid, and a hundred other things in this pioneering role. But if people have always mistaken me and Massi for brothers, maybe there's a reason.