January 13th, 2018, 4:30 PM. My son Giuseppe dies between my arms. Those same arms that had held him for the first time, welcoming him into this world, now supported him as his young life faded away. He was only 18 years old. Too few to say goodbye, too many to not have left an indelible mark.
I wipe away the last tear that slides from his right eye as the blood silently spills inside him. Five shots. The last one to the heart. In that instant, a part of me dies with him.
Giuseppe dies in my anti-violence center. He dies to save me. I have saved many lives, snatching boys and girls them from the mafia, prostitution, violence, organized crime. But they, killing my son before my eyes, killed me twice. They condemned me to live with this weight, with this image etched in my soul: my son falling, my son dying, my son saving me.

After his death, I got lost in a labyrinth with no way out. The pain was too strong. I was suspended between heaven and earth, unable to breathe, to exist. Then, slowly, the fog cleared. I began to see, to understand.
Two years later, the crossroads: Survive with this immense pain or let myself die slowly. Giuseppe still whispered to me: “Mom, never give up.” He always said that. A month before he died, I had a small heart attack, and he held my hands tightly, begging me to hold on.

And so I decided. I decided to live, but not just for myself. I decided to live for him, to carry on his example. Giuseppe is not a boy who kills. Giuseppe is a boy who protects; A boy who shielded a woman with his body: his mother.

My rebirth comes from my pain. I understood that to rise again, I had to first sink into the darkest abyss of my soul. Face the pain. Face my fears. And then, find the strength to re-emerge. To continue to save lives, even if I couldn't save his.
Today I am one of them. Today my help is infinite. Because I have suffered the greatest violence that can exist: losing a son before my eyes, to save the sons, daughters, mothers of others.
I have received 17 national and international awards for my social commitment. But the first one, the one that really gave me the push to react, was the “Camomilla Award”. A helping hand. And I, fragile, broken, grasped it with all the strength I had left. A symbol that I made my own. A promise whispered in the wind: "Mom, don't stop. Keep fighting in my name. Help the young, help the women."

And as I write these words, the phone vibrates. A voice message. “I need you... he massacred me.”
I would have so much to write on these blank pages...

I have been reborn seven times. Life has taught me about pain. But my scars tell stories of hope. And Giuseppe, from up there, watches over me. He gives me the strength to keep going. Because his light will never go out.