That's how Antonio's mother told it to me. We had noticed that he was a bit slower than his younger brother Carlo. My husband and I thought it would be best to put them in the same class, so Carlo could help and protect him. When they were small, everything went well. I was proud of how close they were, pleased by Antonio's progress—modest though it was.
As they became teenagers—Carlo taller, more handsome, stronger—I couldn't bring myself to separate them, even though I could see the class wasn't right for Antonio. He was falling behind in certain subjects, despite Carlo's generous tutoring after school. I told myself: "It's better they stay together. That way Antonio will suffer less." But...
As Antonio grew, he saw and understood more and more how talented Carlo was. He watched girls gather around his brother. He felt that he was not like him. Slowly, he came to see himself as a failure—though he never spoke of it to anyone. He simply watched his younger brother with growing admiration, this boy now twenty centimeters taller than him, with long dark hair pulled back in a braid. He smiled at Carlo's girlfriends, perhaps imagining that one of them—maybe the least pretty one—might someday ask him out.
One day there was a party with classmates. Both brothers were invited. Carlo, as kind as always, dragged Antonio along. Antonio, as always, was silent and anxious—more than anxious, he was afraid. Carlo kept saying: "You'll see, this time it'll work out. You'll find your girlfriend."
Throughout the party, Antonio stayed by the refreshment table. His eyes fixed desperately on the girl he had always liked, the one he wanted to say so many things to but never could, the one he was sure would change everything for him. She was the only thing he could see.
By then everyone was dancing, there was some commotion. No one paid attention to Antonio, standing frozen by the buffet, his gaze locked on his "beloved."
Then she went over to Carlo. She leaned in close, loud enough for Antonio to hear: "Hey, Carlo, can't you tell that retard of a brother of yours to stop staring at me?"
And that was the fall. Antonio never spoke again after that day.
He refused to go to school. He lay on his bed all day, staring at the ceiling. Nothing his brother said, nothing his parents did, made any difference. None of them understood what had broken inside him. Later, despite their efforts, he was labeled "mentally ill"—a word he never did comprehend.
Mariangela Bertolini, 2006