Episode 2

My name is Luiza Moretti, I am 26 years old, and I am an assistant in a daycare center in the Italian countryside. I have worked there for a few years and, honestly, I can't see myself doing anything else. My world revolves around the children—those little hands dirty with paint, the desperate cries for attention, and especially those toothless smiles that save me on the worst days.

I am a simple woman, born and raised in a small village, where everyone knows everyone's life, and the smell of tomato sauce invades the streets on Sundays. My upbringing was not exactly common. I was raised by my nonna Giovanna, a typical hot-blooded Italian, owner of a huge heart—and a rolling pin that she swore she knew how to use as a weapon.

My mother—or as I usually call her, my mom—left me with my nonna when I was just two years old. She arrived one afternoon, put me in the arms of that strong and simple woman, and said only: "She's your granddaughter." After that, she disappeared as if she had never existed.

Nonna didn't think twice. Even living one of the most difficult moments of her life, she welcomed me. She had lost her only son—my father—just a year ago, in a tragic car accident. The pain was still fresh, but somehow, she saw in me a chance to breathe again.

I grew up hearing stories about my father. My nonna showed old photos of him—smiling, playing, young—and said he would have been a wonderful father. But, to be honest, I don't remember him. I never met him. I look at the photos, listen to the stories, but I don't recognize myself in those features. Sometimes I wonder if I carry more of the woman who left me than of that man everyone said was good. It's a doubt I keep to myself.

But if there is one certainty I carry, it is my nonna's love. She gave me everything. Love, values, care. She worked hard all her life to make sure I didn't lack anything—and even on the days when something was missing, she found a way. She was the one who taught me to cook, to respect others, and to get up on my own whenever life knocked me down.

I'm a bit hot-headed, I confess. I have a sharp tongue and often speak without thinking. When I'm nervous, I gesture so much with my hands that I've spilled more than one cup of coffee in bar fights. Sometimes I speak too fast, mix up the subjects, run over the words. But that's just a detail. Deep down, I'm a focused woman, down to earth. Suspicious, yes, especially with men.

I never really believed in this "prince charming" story. I've been involved with some men, but I always ended up discovering a betrayal, a lie, some disappointment. This only reinforced what I already suspected: I don't need a man to be happy. I can suffice myself. And I do.

It was then that, surrounded by the universe of children in the daycare center, this desire to be a mother began to grow inside me. At first, it was a light thing—a thought here, another there. But, over time, it became a real, alive, urgent desire. Seeing those children every day, holding those little hands, hearing those sweet little voices calling "Aunt Lu," touched me in a way I didn't expect.

But how to realize this dream without being married? Without even having a boyfriend?

Simple: independent production.

It was not an easy decision. I thought a lot before telling my nonna. She, with her traditional ways and giant heart, might not understand. But, to my surprise, she supported me immediately. "If that's what your heart wants, then go for it, my daughter," she said, holding my hands with teary eyes.

Since then, we started saving money. She went back to making sweets and cakes to sell at the town square fair—her famous cannolis and sfogliatelles disappeared from the stalls in minutes. And, even when I said I could take care of it myself, she always gave me "a few pennies," as she called it, to help with the "baby fund," as she proudly began to say.

Each coin saved, each sweet sold, each extra hour I worked at the daycare center, brought me one step closer to my dream. A dream that many people considered impossible, or even wrong. But I never cared what others think. Whoever lives according to what others think is right, ends up living a life that is not theirs.

Today, I am here, sitting in a clinic waiting room, with sweaty hands and a racing heart. It's the day of my first appointment. I will start the artificial insemination process.

While I wait, I look at my still empty belly and try to imagine what is to come. Fear? Yes, I have it. It's a lot for one woman. But I never had any doubts. I want to be a mother with all my heart. I want to feel my baby growing inside me, I want to hear his heartbeat for the first time, I want to follow each phase, each kick, each ultrasound.

This child—who has not even begun to exist—is already loved. It is already expected. It is already dreamed of.

And when he arrives, he will have a strong, determined mother, full of love. He will also have a nonna Giovanna with the rolling pin in her hand, ready to scare away anyone who approaches with bad intentions. He will grow up surrounded by good food, firm values, and, above all, affection.

I don't know what the future will be like. I don't know if it will be easy. But I know that, from today, my life begins to change.

And I am ready.

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