I was born in Pisa and am happily Roman by adoption. Four children, two affectionate and two scatter-brained, but statistically the right outcome. In their elementary school notebooks their sincere declarations are crystallized: “You are the most beautiful mom in the world. I will always love you,” just like those of my husband’s – a feminist champion like everyone who, however, would kill me if there weren’t fresh salad for dinner so much so that, out of desperation, I planted some out on our balcony.
