The alarm goes off: time to wake my daughter Vanessa. She needs to get ready for preschool. I lean over her gently and wake her. Slowly, her eyes open. She stretches and whispers to me, "Good morning, Mommy!" Then her eyes drift to the photo of her brother Gabriele. She smiles at it—her way of saying good morning to him. We have breakfast, get dressed, and rush out to school. There, we say goodbye, promising to see each other later.
When it's time to pick her up, Vanessa tells me what happened that day. She heard her classmates talking about their brothers and sisters. I watch her face fall, and her small voice comes out: "Mommy, I miss Gabriele so much!"
I tell her, "I miss him too, sweetheart. But we mustn't be sad." Her dark eyes light up again. The smile returns to her face. Days pass this way, rushing through time, doing everything that needs to be done, but always in the joy of the Lord.
One morning, Vanessa decides to bring with her a little plush puppy named "Cucciolotto"—a memory of Gabriele. At school, another child asks if the puppy is hers. She answers right away: "It's my brother's. But he died. He's in heaven watching me." The boy doesn't believe her. He starts to tease her.
When I pick her up, I see she's sad. At home, she tells me everything. I try to calm her, helping her understand that the boy simply didn't know. I encourage her to be understanding toward him, not angry.
The next morning we wake as we do every day. After praying and entrusting the day to the Lord, we leave the house and arrive at school. I kiss her goodbye—the way every mother kisses her child—so she feels protected and reassured throughout the day. Then I leave to run my errands.
At 3:30 I pick up Vanessa. Her teacher keeps me to tell me that something different happened in class that morning. Something that touched the hearts of the children—and the adults.
Vanessa had said "enough" to those classmates who kept insisting that Gabriele didn't exist. And to the accusation: "You killed him!"—words that cut like a knife, because she had wanted that brother so badly and wished he could be home like everyone else's.
She made them all be quiet. She told them to sit down and listen to her carefully. And then she began to tell her brother's story—the way she hears it from us, the way we have told it to her. The way a six-year-old can tell it.
The teachers let her speak. They understood that the moment had come for all her classmates to hear this story—so sad, yet so full of love. Her teacher told me that everyone listened carefully. Vanessa spoke of the days in Rome. Of the tiny bottle that reached her mother's arm—vitamins for her baby brother, so small. Of when she learned he was born and the joy she felt. Of how beautiful he was—the first and only time she saw him. Of the painful moment of his death. But knowing that he is up there watching over her, close to the Lord, gives her strength and courage from above.
Then she began to speak of La Quercia Millenaria and of Aunt Sabrina and Uncle Carletto (as she calls them) and everything the families of the Quercia do—the organization her parents are part of.
That's how Vanessa opened her heart. She showed everyone that you don't joke about death. That everything she said was true. That she too has a brother who lives in heaven, and he has a name like all brothers do: Gabriele.
The classmates who had teased her stood up and apologized. They hugged her. The teachers took control of the class again and helped everyone understand that they must always stand together.
I was so happy about what happened in class. I knew it would happen eventually, and I was ready. I turned to Vanessa with a big smile, kissed her, and said, "You did the right thing. Mommy is proud of you."
We left school with our heads held high. So high we could see the sky. I thanked the Lord for using Vanessa as a channel through which His love could flow to others.
Bianca De Pascalis, 2010
Coordinator, Tuscany Branch of La Quercia Millenaria, Livorno Section
From "La Quercia Millenaria" of February 4, 2010
