Valerio, twelve years old, seemed to have a stable life—loving parents, a normal home—except for the school absences that kept stretching longer. Then middle school arrived, and he stopped leaving the house altogether. Not even his parents' pleas or the social workers assigned to his case could move him. He barricaded himself in his darkened room, glued to a computer screen surrounded by video games, Japanese manga, and posters. He wouldn't budge all day, not even to eat. His mother brought meals on a tray—fast food hamburgers and fries, his preferred fare.
She adored him, called him an angel. Neither parent had ever learned to set boundaries; Valerio's consent was needed for every decision, even what to cook for dinner. It might have looked like indulgence, but it was simply how their family had always worked. How could a boy separate from a parent who had done everything for him and denied him nothing?
The family had become so fused that growing up, becoming your own person, was nearly impossible.
Adolescence is naturally full of contradictions. Teenagers swing between wanting independence and wanting to regress. Their bodies and minds transform in unsettling ways. The values their parents offered no longer convince them, yet they still slam the door on their way out, sure they can come back for a hug and reassurance. But when a family is already damaged by relational pathology—when a child has been saddled with the burden of holding two parents together—the response can be what Valerio chose: as he entered puberty, he simply stopped moving from his room.
To help Valerio toward growth, separation from his family became necessary. He was placed in a residential community in Rome, returning home on weekends and holidays.
Il Focolare is no ordinary place. Valerio lives there with five other boys, all adolescents at risk, all separated from their families for similar reasons. Since 1983, the facility has been directed by Dr. Gabriella D'Intino, a psychologist. The community is secular, part of a cooperative currently headed by Filippo Paolo Camboni, an educator. The cooperative runs several vital services for at-risk youth, contracted by the city of Rome.
Young people arrive at the community after a referral—from a school, a family doctor, a police officer who notices a runaway, or the juvenile courts. Social workers investigate. If they find that the family cannot protect the child, that there is risk of delinquent behavior, that there is no responsible adult figure to guide the adolescent, the Juvenile Court issues a civil decree placing the minor in the care of social services.
A caseworker then works with the family, outlining steps toward a plan centered on the child's welfare. If the family fails to follow through—despite home support or day programs—and if no family member can adequately support the teenager, removal from the home becomes the last resort. It is brutal for any parent, regardless of class: shame, loss of identity, the agony of separation. Some parents resist fiercely. Wealthier families often blame the child alone rather than examining the family system itself. Poorer families more often clash openly with authorities—the school, police, social workers. When that opposition becomes too intense, the community will not proceed, needing family cooperation. The community's whole model centers on the family, including family psychotherapy when possible, so that rehabilitation involves everyone.
Other Pathways
Beyond the eight residential residents, other mildly struggling youth are served through an after-school program—homework help, snacks, and structured time until dinner, when they go home. This can be a gentle entry point to residential care, which feels too drastic all at once. The thought that a child won't sleep under the family roof is itself a barrier to productive dialogue.
There is also a semi-independent track for teenagers nearing adulthood who cannot fully care for themselves or return home. For them, the community becomes an anchor, a scheduled meeting point. The plan is neither residential nor unsupported—it is protected, embedded in urban life, a gradual bridge to full independence beyond age eighteen.
The community rarely accepts youth with criminal sentences. Such orders last three to six months and impose restrictions that don't fit the community's approach, which typically requires nine months for real change.
But when the caseworker has built genuine collaboration, most families come to accept that removal is necessary and right.
For Valerio, the community became a third place—neither his family's home nor the workers' office, free of the shame of being labeled. His program centers on autonomy and learning rules he never had. After a year, he was old enough to take the bus alone. He started riding it to his old school, then for afternoon outings. Once homework and chores were done, he was expected out of the house, even if only for a walk.
At home, he saw the world through a computer screen. At the community, he had to live in it. He had to find his own recreation. There were no computers or PlayStations—only a television, a DVD player, and board games like Monopoly and Risk, where he faced others directly. His coordination improved. At twelve, he had almost none; his first soccer game was a real victory.
Mornings, the youth are mostly in school, with one staff member for those who can't attend. Afternoons bring more staff for homework help. The community is not self-run; there is a cook, a cleaner, someone to iron. But the boys learn to keep their rooms tidy, help in the kitchen, set the table.
Other Services
The Buenos Aires Service Cooperative also offers psychological consultation, family psychotherapy, legal advice for minors, and organizational consulting.
The six rotating staff members are nearly all psychologists, with one educator added recently. That qualification was chosen to better read the youth's struggles. It allows the community to accept adolescents with clear mental health needs—in small numbers, so they don't destabilize the group.
The group itself is vital. The peers both contain each other's pain and offer a mirror: a reflection of who they might become.
Valerio learned patience. With his parents, waiting for anything was unthinkable, and buying anything without immediate funds was impossible. Now he can tell newly arrived boys about the gifts of being slow—as Gabriella puts it—of having patience, remembering his own frantic rush.
Cristina Tersigni, 2008