Chapter 18 With Michael, Our Family Was Complete
Nearly four years after Marco’s birth, life gave us another wonderful gift. On May 30, 1976, our second son was born. We named him Michael. It was a year many people would later remember for its exceptional heat. The summer of 1976 would become one of the hottest of the century. But to Dorina and me, that year would remain forever engraved in our memory for an entirely different reason. Michael’s birth was far from easy. Dorina endured an especially difficult labor that lasted more than twelve hours. The hours passed, one after another. And like any man standing beside the woman he loves, I once again felt all the helplessness such a moment can bring. You cannot take anything in her place. You cannot remove the pain. You can only be present. Wait. Hope. And long to hear someone finally say that everything ended well.
But the delivery was made even more difficult by Michael’s position. He came into the world feet first. For Dorina, it must have been an incredibly painful ordeal. For more than twelve hours, she had fought to bring our child into the world. I could only admire her strength. And when he was finally there… Michael. Our second child. Our second son. I once again felt that overwhelming emotion that had filled my heart nearly four years earlier at Marco’s birth. But this time, immense relief was mixed with it. After all those hours of tension, he had finally been born. And Dorina had overcome that difficult delivery. When you experience something like that, you realize once again how fragile life can be. One moment, you wait in fear and uncertainty. The next, a new human being is there. Your own child.
Dorina and I on our wedding day in 1971—the beginning of the life we would build together.
Together at the table—a simple moment that means so much to me.
And suddenly everything else seems unimportant. When I first saw Michael, my thoughts also went to Marco. He was still only a little boy of three himself. But from that moment, he was no longer an only child. He had become a big brother. Even today, I have to smile when I think back on that period. I wondered whether Marco truly understood what had happened. Probably not entirely. But I saw his curiosity as he carefully looked at his little brother. From that day, a new chapter began for our family. Our home became even livelier. Toys lay everywhere. There was laughter. Sometimes tears. And as in every family, there were small arguments in ours as well. But above all… There was life. A house full of life. Dorina and I did what thousands of young parents try to do every day.
We wanted to give our children everything within our power. Not luxury. But love. Not abundance. But the warmth and security of a united family. We wanted to teach them to respect others. To be honest. To keep their word. And never to forget where their family came from. Language was also part of the special world in which our children grew up. Because Dorina taught French, we mainly spoke French at home. Outside, Dutch was the language of our daily lives. And when I returned to my De Lindeman community, I still often heard and spoke the Italian in which I myself had grown up. Three languages. But also three worlds that were part of who we were. Our Italian origins always remained present. In our habits. In our memories. And above all, in our stories. Stories about Loreto Aprutino. About our parents and grandparents.
A tender moment with Dorina, the woman who has remained by my side all these years.
Dorina and I with our son Marco.
About Abruzzo. About my De Lindeman community. About the coal mines. And about the sacrifices our parents made to give their children a better future. It was important to me that Marco and Michael understand that their lives were part of a story that had begun long before their births. I wanted them to know what their grandparents had been forced to leave behind and how much they had sacrificed so that their children and grandchildren could receive opportunities in Belgium that had never been self-evident to them. That was the inheritance I wanted to pass on to them. Not as a burden. But as something precious. Something to preserve. And perhaps one day to pass on themselves. When I look back today, I see two boys who were very different from one another. Each with his own character. His own talents. His own dreams. A father quickly learns that he must not compare his children.
Every child is unique. From an early age, Marco showed great curiosity. He asked questions. He wanted to understand how things worked. Michael had his own character and qualities. And it was precisely those differences that made them who they were. The most beautiful thing was that they grew up together. They played together. Laughed together. And yes… Every now and then, they also got up to a little mischief together. Exactly as childhood should be. Our family was now complete. When I came home after a long working day and heard my children’s voices, the day’s worries seemed to fade into the background by themselves. In those moments, I began truly to understand where real wealth is found. Not in a bank account. But around the kitchen table. In a child’s smile. In the hand of the person you love. In the quiet security of a home where everyone feels protected.
A portrait of Marco as a young boy.
That was the happiness we lived then. A simple happiness. But perhaps that simple happiness is one of the most precious gifts a human being can receive in life. At the time, I did not yet know which paths life would later trace for Marco and Michael. Nor did I need to know. At that moment, they were simply our two boys. Our children. And after the difficult hours in which Michael had come into the world, I felt gratitude above all. Gratitude for Dorina. For her strength. For Marco. For Michael. For our family. I knew only one thing. I would do everything in my power to give my children the opportunities my parents and I had never had.