Anna Maria, a 67-year-old woman, sat in her small apartment in Catania, staring at the old television buzzing in the corner, its noise barely masking the silence that filled her home. Her wrinkled hands trembled as they clutched her phone, the screen blank—no new messages. She had just called her son, Matteo, and her daughter, Sofia, with the same plea: “Take me in, I can’t do this alone anymore.” Their responses, though polite, cut deep: “Mamma, we don’t have space,” “Mamma, now’s not a good time.” Anna Maria set the phone down and wept, loneliness wrapping itself around her like a cold Sicilian wind. At 67, she didn’t know how to go on.
Her life had been one of sacrifice. She had raised Matteo and Sofia alone after their father died of a heart attack when they were just ten and eight. She’d worked as a seamstress, bending over her sewing machine late into the night to afford warm coats and school notebooks. She denied herself everything—new dresses, trips to the sea, even simple rest—just so her children would want for nothing. Matteo became a lawyer, Sofia a teacher, and Anna Maria swelled with pride as if their successes were her own. But now that her strength was fading and her health faltering, she was no longer needed.
Anna Maria didn’t want to be a burden. She did her best to manage alone: cooking simple minestrone, dragging herself to the market despite her aching knees, cleaning her apartment even when her hands barely obeyed. But each day was a struggle. The stairs to her third-floor walk-up felt like climbing Etna, grocery bags weighed like boulders, and the nights stretched on endlessly. She feared falling, getting sick, lying helpless in her empty apartment where no one would hear her call. She dreamed of living with her children, watching her grandchildren grow, feeling like part of a family again. But every hesitant “no” felt like proof that her life no longer mattered.
Matteo lived in Milan with his wife and two kids. When Anna Maria called, he would say, “Mamma, our place is small, the kids are loud—you wouldn’t be comfortable.” She heard the irritation in his voice and knew: he didn’t want to rearrange his life for her. Sofia, in Palermo, was gentler but no less painful: “Mamma, we’ll think about it, but right now work is chaos.” Anna Maria pictured them talking about her behind her back, calling her a “problem,” and her heart shattered. She wasn’t asking for luxury—just a corner where she could be near them, where someone might listen. But even that was too much.
One evening, after yet another refusal, Anna Maria sat down to write a letter. She wanted to pour her sorrow onto the page, but instead, she wrote: “I love you, but I’m afraid. If you don’t want me, just say so.” She sent it to Matteo and Sofia, but no reply came. The silence was worse than any words. She looked at their photos on the wall and asked herself, “Where did I go wrong? Why did they turn away?” She remembered rocking them to sleep, singing lullabies, giving up everything—how had all that love led to this loneliness?
Her neighbors tried to help. Signora Rosalia from downstairs brought over trays of pasta al forno, and young Luca from across the hall carried her groceries upstairs. But their kindness only highlighted the emptiness: strangers cared more than her own blood. Anna Maria started attending a local seniors’ club, where she sang in the choir and learned to crochet. There, she laughed and joked, but back home, the silence swallowed her whole. Her grandchildren, whom she saw maybe once a year, were growing up without her, and the thought twisted like a knife. She wanted to bake them pastries, tell them stories—instead, she sat alone, counting the days.
Now, Anna Maria tries to find meaning where she can. She signed up for a computer class, hoping to learn video calls—maybe then her grandchildren would see her. She plants geraniums on her balcony, praying their color might drown out the sadness. But at night, when sleep won’t come, she cries, asking, “What did I do to deserve this?” She still hopes Matteo or Sofia will change their minds, call her, say, “Mamma, come home.” But with each passing day, that hope fades. Anna Maria doesn’t know how much time she has left, but she wants to spend it surrounded by family, not silence. And until her children answer, she’s learning, for the first time in 67 years, to love herself.