Women’s stories – Ester

Today the story is that of Esther, a girl who grew up in a southern province where being able to grow up unscathed from delinquency and perdition, is a privilege as well as a fortune.

“Around me I remember the gray images of anonymous palaces in which brigades of restless teenagers moved. My friends aspired nothing more than to find a man to take them away from that squalor. Marriage seemed the only way out.”

Enjoy your reading. 🙂



Not me. I liked school, I wanted to be an important person.

Love was not enough to complete the image of my future in which I projected myself as an independent and realized woman. My desperate studying was my only means of trying to emerge from the quagmire I was in. I was studying with the greed of those who know that they only have one chance in the game of their lives. One hand in which to play everything. So since graduating, I’ve moved to university while I’ve seen my friends get married and have kids.

Men were a hindrance to me. Some small story had sometimes cheered my student days, but nothing more. The goal of graduation and a job made men and non-sense stories disappear on the horizon.

I wanted to be a lawyer. I knew the road was all uphill for a woman like me from a southern province, no recommendations, no discounts. But that made me even more heinous in my intention to take what I wanted with all of myself.
But when do you plan to get engaged? You never go out….That was the question that relatives and friends were insistently asking me. I don’t have time, I answered resolutely and annoyed at the same time.

Meanwhile, time was passing by. After practicing, I had found a job in a major firm as a lawyer. On the first day I looked at the desk that had been assigned to me with the sneer of an intimate deep satisfaction. I did it. I had sacrificed youth and loves but in the end I made it.
For some time I continued to taste the taste of conquest.
Then came the desire to complete the drawing. The work was there but something was moaning inside me. The lack of someone to share my successes with, my disappointments, my interests. Suddenly the veil that had always obtained in me the image of the male world was torn apart. I looked at them with different eyes, trying to find the sign that pointed me to the right one. My friends’ weddings were starting to make water all over the place. Stories that started with the most overwhelming love had turned into horror movie nightmares. I didn’t want to and I couldn’t go wrong.

As with graduation and work, i now had a new goal: to find the man of my life. Where to start? Where to look for him? In the office for heaven’s sake scorched earth. In the circle of my friendships idem. The feat was not at all easy while my biological clock was 38 years old. And I actually knew inside myself that what I was really looking for was just a son. The real goal behind the search for a man there was the desire of having a child.

I would walk past the shop windows of pram shops and children’s clothes and be enchanted. Time stopped on this desire. On my way to work by tram I often got lost in the dream of two small little feet to kiss.

And the more time passed, the more the thought of being a mother increased in me. Nature claimed his obolo and I could not oppose his design.

Candlelit dinners began, transformed almost into interviews, I might say, for men who were supposed to play not so much the role of companions, but the much more demanding role of fathers. I was looking for a dad for my baby, and none of them seemed up to it. I used to come home every time after those disappointed and bitter outings.

One morning I looked in the mirror and saw a little girl with wrinkles. The lack of pregnancy, the non-absolution of my biological task, had transformed me into an amorphous being, transporting me from youth to the most advanced maturity. The piece of my middle life was missing, the one I should have spent between ups and downs, between untold joys and sorrows, just like my friends, in any marriage, with any man I would then leave holding tight but the spoils: the children. My life had taken a different path. I wanted her to go down that path that had now taken me to a dead end and I had to get out of it.

That’s how my research became obsessive. By now my evenings spent between dance schools, aperitifs in the center, gallant appointments. I started sghembe stories, trying to straighten them out in the course of work. But nothing, they escaped my attempt to redesign them as I liked. So they ended up in the most apocalyptic fury or simply went off like a candle coming to its bottom.

One day, however, he arrived, like a sudden gust of wind. The moment my eyes met his including the taste of happiness, a sweet and unmistakable taste that I had never experienced before. In front of those eyes they lost their sense objective of all sorts. He was the man I wanted in my life without ifs and buts. And I would have taken it. He was husband and father, but that didn’t seem like a hindrance, just a setback. It wasn’t easy at first. It was time for lies and subterfuge, motel getaways and second thoughts, ” or you or me”, furious quarrels, sleepless nights as I knew he was lying in bed next to his wife.

But even more was about to happen.

A delay made me doubt that something had gone as planned. When I was 43, I was having an affair with a married man who wouldn’t leave his wife. A son was off-schedule. Yet a hope was lit. That of finally stroking those little feet I dreamed of in the tram. The one that he would renew by realizing that I was the woman of his life. I began to think that maybe that off-schedule was a sign of fate because it would bring order back to the delirium of our lives: he loved me and would leave his wife to be with me and the baby that would be born.

The pregnancy test I did it myself, on my way home after work, to my bathroom. Urine flowed on the strip as thoughts became liquid in my head. The result produced a rushing hot bow from the tip of the toes to that of the hair: positive. I ran on the phone to call him but stopped: it was evening and he was with his wife, I couldn’t do it. I left him a message, giving him an appointment the next day, for one of our evenings at my house.

It took him a while to respond or maybe I was just so impatient that I could decide to go to his house at the same time. Then came his Agree while I filled a bathtub to take a hot bath trying to tidy up my thoughts. I lit candles and incense and filled me with a glass of white wine. Stripping myself I looked in the mirror: those shapes that I now saw so slender would be filled with life. I immersed in hot water with my glass in my hand. I toasted life, love, my last chance.

I slept very little that night. The best of my life. I already felt like a mother.

The next day I barely held back the emotion and laboriously dragged my hours into the evening.

I had prepared a very romantic dinner, his favorite dishes, the music, the candles. When he arrived, he knew right away that I was hatching something. All he had to do was look at me in the eyes to see if there was anything new in the air. So I decided not to wait until the end of dinner to let him discover a note under the plate that announced to him: you will become a dad.
I’m not going to tell you about his reaction that night because it hurts. He simply told me that he had never thought of having a child with me, that he considered me Out of Time Maximum for a pregnancy that could have serious risks for the fetus, but above all that he intended to recover the relationship with his wife. He had children with a woman he had discovered he had always loved. I would not have lacked his support, however, to get us out of the unexpected. You have a problem growing inside, he told me.

In that moment I realized that I would be alone living what life was unexpectedly giving me.

I suffered a lot from the end of my romance. I still loved him. And I was deeply disappointed with him. But now I had an immensely bigger task to complete: to unearth those little feet.

I spent months trepidating waiting to see him. After the three months I started buying clothes, objects, creams that smelled good. I couldn’t wait to hold him in my arms, I knew it would be a boy, a bullying instinct pushed me to imagine it like this.

One night I fell asleep tired on the couch watching TV. It had been a cold February day, with a rushing wind, I remember it well. I woke up in a storm. I was inundated with blood, copious and kept coming out in a slingshot. Shocked I rushed to get a towel putting it between my legs and ran to the car wearing a coat on my nightgown. In the emergency room they took me urgently to gynecology for an ultrasound. I was crying and hoping with all of myself that it wouldn’t happen to me, it couldn’t be….The doctor’s words came to me from far away, amplified and metallic. They had done other analyses and the verdict was ready to be delivered, for me now at the bar: my baby was gone.

A dark, dusty cloud fell on my lost soul in the days to come.

A few years have passed but every time the cold January wind comes it takes me as a bewilderment. I remember it taking away from me the joy of being a mother, who swept away with the cold lashes my most beautiful dream.

I talk little about my pain, not even with my closest friends. It’s a silent presence, that I’m carrying like a heavy suitcase.

Today I live a new love story with the man who, with patience and self-denial, managed to sooth my wounds. Fate wanted me not to be a mother, but today I no longer feel like a little girl with wrinkles. I am afraid to say it but I live moments of happiness with my new love even if, on a cold and windy day in January, like today, I am afraid of losing everything. One more time.

If you want to tell your story and share it, you can contact me by email or in response to this post.

Women’s stories – Stella

Today we tell the story of Stella, who faces her husband’s betrayal and soon discovers that she cannot do anything about it.

Maybe life is like a river that goes to the sea. It didn’t go where intended to go, but it ended up where it needed to be.

Fabrizio Caramagna


Christmas Eve. I remember the cold air in the morning while I was shopping. I wanted the dinner to be perfect in every detail. I would have carefully cooked fish dishes, I would have set the table with golden organza tulle.

Christmas music in the background would have spread notes of family intimacy in the air. The children would have worn the new red and black velvet dresses, running around joyfully and impatiently waiting to unwrap the gifts. Then the tree. I wanted it all with white flowers, really impressive. Everything had been studied in detail. For some time my husband hasn’t been the same. He always returned later in the evening and even on weekends he was often out for hypothetical work commitments.

He no longer looked me in the eyes. Indeed, he escaped my gaze. The conversation centered on the children, the shopping, the home. Never a word about us, about me, about what I felt. And I wanted to. Sometimes I looked at him absorbed in his thoughts. His body was next to mine but his soul was traveling elsewhere. We no longer made love. Little by little the habit of looking for each other under the bed sheets was lost. We lived in two parallel worlds that did not cross except in daily affairs. What still bound us? The mortgage to pay. The children. Years spent together. So many memories. But he was no longer mine. For a long time. Yet I still loved him, I was sure of it. I still wanted it. So, that Christmas Eve, I had decided to take him back.

I would have set up a perfect scene of family happiness to make him understand that his life was with us. Certainly not with the other, whose ghost now populated my sleepless and restless nights. My feminine intuition told me that that was the truth. All the clues pointed to this. There was no doubt. Then I should have tried to use all the weapons to my advantage. I was the wife. And I was the mother of his children. The woman he had shared everything with since we met twenty years earlier.

I would have populated that Christmas Eve with a radiant, sparkling atmosphere, made up of music, lights, colors, family scents. I wanted to make him understand that I didn’t care about his fling (because that’s what it was, I was sure).

A wife will have to forgive some of her husband’s mistakes and then be ready to pick him up in her big arms. The thought of the other bothered me, that yes. But more for her who had slipped subtly into our intimacy, than for him, whom I saw as aprey to her enchanting arts.

In my culture as a simple woman, educated in a farmers’ family, with sound principles and few frills, a woman had to have courage and common sense. Taking him back into my arms and forgiving him seemed like common sense. I imagined the scene at times. He who was crying on my breast invoking my forgiveness. I was crying and kissing him. And then we would have made love. Many times until the morning, when we would find ourselves in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in our hands looking at each other as it once was. As only he knew how to look at me and everything would be as before. Ring at the door. I go to open anxiously. The scene that I had set up as the backdrop for my victory over the other was ready.

Everything was perfect. Except him. Almost bothered by my attentions and the atmosphere with which I had enveloped him. The evening proceeded in a falsely serene atmosphere. The speeches are forced, the smiles painted on puzzled faces. At midnight we open the gifts to the delight of the children who perhaps do not notice the difficult lives of the adults around them. Let’s hope. There comes a time when we find ourselves alone. The time has come to tell him that I still love him and that I don’t care about the other one … But he does it before me.

He says my name like he hasn’t done for a long time. Stella… I have to tell you something. And then the whole truth falls on me like a winter avalanche. After that there is only silence and ice. He tells me he found out he loved a man. It had happened to him before, when he was very young, before we met. The story with me had made him think that this was just a youthful crush. Then came the marriage, the children, the house, the mortgage.

For some time, however, that desire that drowned in our marriage had resurfaced in him. He loved another. He could no longer deny it and pretend a life with me that no longer made sense. He decided to tell me on Christmas Eve … I swallow that truth like a bitter poison. I know I can’t compete with a man taking him away from me. My Christmas present. It’s not easy to walk again after a fall like this. Yet with so much pain, so much effort, today I still prepare Christmas dinner.

The music resounds and the organza tablecloth is still there. My children are grown up but still wait for midnight with the happiness of unwrapping their gifts. Next to me there is another who helps me cook Christmas Eve dinner. Everything will be perfect. I’m sure.

If you want to see the original video: https://www.facebook.com/RadioBinario7/videos/359291738003499/

storia vera, tratta dal blog: http://blog.pianetadonna.it/lestoriediagatha/stella/

Women’s stories – Clementine

Today’s story is that of Clementine, a woman who realizes that something is missing in her golden life. For a time she feels confused, lost: she has a husband who adores her, a much-desired son and a fulfilling job. What can she miss?


Every morning leaving house before him, I would slide away from his body, letting him sleep. I was confused and sleepy in the kitchen in front of my cup of hot milk and wrote a love note saying good morning. For him. He would do the same by making me find a note in the evening. Good morning Princess. Goodnight beauty. Everyday. Years of engagement and marriage, the arrival of a child, had not in the least affected this sweet routine, the effusions, the love atmosphere and peace that hung around us. You don’t look like a married couple, many told us, but two sweethearts in love like the first day.

These sweet actions have cheered my wedding, apparently perfect and envied. Yet I felt inside me that a piece of my heart was missing. Yes, somewhere something was inexorably wavering. Sometimes I found myself in the office lost in distant thoughts, in imaginative worlds, losing all contact with real life. Something was wrong. The circle did not close perfectly on my life as a wife and mother. I had the terrible feeling of pretending, living a life that didnt belong to me. I was fumbling in an attempt to look into the immense void that had opened inside of me. What was I missing? A loving and caring husband, a desired and loved child, a satisfying and profitable job.

I had all the requisites that this society counts among those indispensable for a happy and fulfilled life. Yet they werent enough to make me feel complete. The sleepless nights began without a reason. My fear began of compromising with my increasingly frequent bad moods what I had built and wanted more than anything else in the world. That house, designed, furnished, desired, was becoming a prison in which my soul yearned to feel free and at peace.

This is how you found me when you entered in my life.

I saw you at an cocktail. You were on the sidelines with your drink in hand. You looked around bored. Instinct did it before me, before the elaboration of any rational thought, I was there next to you, talking about everything and nothing, happy to be inundated by your immense smile. I had lost track of space and time when my husband came to tell me it was time to go and asked me to introduce him to that new friend. Ginevra, nice to meet you.

That night I did nothing but think of you. I wanted to see you again. I just needed to see you again. In the morning I drank my coffee quickly and sneaked out of the house with one goal. Find yourself. In our conversation you told me to work in a real estate agency across town. I called the office saying I wasn’t going to work that day and came to see you. What madness!

A woman had changed my life. My belly was in turmoil, every fiber of my body trembled, when, standing in front of the agency’s window, I was trying to find the courage to come in and ask you if you wanted to have lunch with me. But the footsteps went by themselves towards your desk, without my being able in any way to hinder their determined and firm progress. I was passing by, shall we eat together? Yes, gladly … Then my heart was not wrong when it was deluded that for you too that meeting had been something strong and overwhelming. I went crazy with joy.

How to tell the happiness of that and subsequent lunches. Oh how many! Dinners at her house, chats on the sofa, walks looking at each others in the eyes. Ginevra and me.

When I was away from her the thought of those lips weakened me, I could not work, concentrate, think. Suddenly I no longer felt that emptiness that was drying me up. Ginevra had filled every gap in my soul.

Thus began my life in the middle, split in two realities. During the day still wife and mother, in the evening often a clandestine lover. I fulfilled my duties as a married woman: shopping, preparing lunches and dinners, the child from school, the swimming pool.

But a fire was growing inside me that made me feel alive and happy, making every molecule in my body vibrate. How many lies and how many excuses to cover that fire. I escaped more and more often from the hands of my husband who sought me out at night, in the dark.

I had to go away. I could not bear this life any longer. I was tired of too many lies, of the falsehood that I was surrounding my life with. And then I wanted to be with her, wake up and fall asleep in her arms. Everyday. So, on a June evening, the windows open on the incipient heat, I sat next to him and told him that I was not in love him anymore, to have great and new feelings for another person. I omitted that it was a woman. I didn’t want to upset him any more than he already was. But it wasn’t long before the truth broke out.

My husband did not accept that truth too harsh for his pride as a wounded male: his wife was leaving home for another woman. And then my son. In the midst of daily fights he was contended among the reasons of a father who camped dangerous consequences of my bad behaviour on his psyche.

Lawyers, psychologists, judges, friends no longer friends, poisoned my daily routine.

My battle still continues today. A relentless struggle to claim the legitimacy of our love. To try not to get overwhelmed by feelings of guilt for having lost everyday life with my son. No more kisses in the morning and cuddles in the evening, but only aseptic meetings for a few hours in anonymous places that take my breath away and the words to tell him how much I love him and how much I miss him. Short phone calls. How did school go? While a “as usual mom” closes the door to our brief conversation.

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night in an indescribable anguish. Thoughts that create inner troubles, bizarre nocturnal awakenings and strange dreams. But above all an idea that terrorizes me: that she is no longer next to me and that my bed suddenly becomes cold and empty.

I think and think again: is it really that important to understand what we are, in love? Because love changes us, devastates us, makes us evolve, we lose ourselves, our boundaries as man and woman, our sex, and we become something else. I can’t find the answers I’m looking for.

I just know that today I am no longer the woman I used to be, writing good morning notes to her husband in an “almost perfect” life. I bet all my chips on this number, for me a winner in the roulette of life.

original story from: http://blog.pianetadonna.it/lestoriediagatha/clementine/