Grateful for What Remains
When I look back on my life today, I realize how easy it is to dwell only on what we lost. Loss speaks loudly. It draws our attention to the empty places. The voices we no longer hear. Everything that will never return. What remains often speaks much more softly. I too could have chosen to live only in my sorrow.
After Marco's death, there were days when I could see almost nothing but his absence. It was not a choice. It was grief. Anyone who loses a child carries that pain for the rest of life. It does not disappear. It only changes form.
But slowly, I began to discover that sorrow and gratitude can coexist. Being grateful does not mean feeling the absence less. It does not mean forgetting. And it certainly does not mean the wound has healed. It means that beside everything taken from us, we dare once again to look at what life still gives us. I remained Marco's father. Death changed nothing about that.
I am grateful for the thirty-seven years during which I was able to call him my son. For our conversations. Our journeys. Our dreams. Our collaboration. And for the friendship that had grown between us. But I am also Michael's father. And over the past years, Michael and I have built a bond that became emotionally deeper than I would ever have dared to hope.
Perhaps even as strong as the bond I once had with Marco. Not the same. No bond between two people is ever entirely identical. And one son can never replace the other. Love does not compare. Love simply creates another place in the heart. This closeness between Michael and me grew from a situation I initially found very difficult to accept.
The relationship that developed between Michael and Tina, Marco's first wife, initially stirred many conflicting feelings within me. I remembered the pain Marco had known during and after their separation. As his father, I wanted to continue protecting him even after his death.
That is why part of me resisted this new reality. But once again, life taught me that we do not always choose the road by which reconciliation and happiness return to us. What I first regarded as a threat to our memories slowly became something that brought our family closer together. Birthdays and holidays again became times of warmth and unity. Marco's name was not silenced. Quite the opposite. We speak openly about him.
We tell anecdotes. We recall memories. We laugh about things he said and did. Sometimes, a tear falls. But most often, above all, we feel how much love he left behind. In this way, Marco does not remain connected only to the sorrow of his final years. He continues to be part of our daily family life. And I am grateful for that. I am grateful for my four grandchildren. Chiara. Laura. Helena. And Andreas.
Four young people, each with a character of their own, their own dreams, and their own place in my heart. Chiara and Laura are Marco's daughters. When I look at them, I sometimes recognize something of their father. A smile. A gesture. A certain way of looking. In those moments, it feels as though a small part of him comes very close again. Helena and Andreas are Michael's children. They too bring their own joy, spontaneity, and expectations for the future to our family.
Together, they do not form separate parts. They are my four grandchildren. Four lives of equal value, each enriching our family in their own way. I am grateful to have watched them grow. To still be part of their lives as a father and grandfather. To listen to them. Laugh with them. And watch them gradually seek their own path. Dorina too has stood beside me for almost an entire lifetime.
Together, we have known joy that filled our hearts. But also sorrow we once thought impossible to carry. And yet we continued moving forward. Not because we were always strong, but because loving sometimes means one person remains standing when the other temporarily cannot take another step. I sometimes wonder what my parents would think if they could see our family today. I believe they would be proud.
Not because we led a perfect life. No one does. But because, despite everything that happened, we never entirely stopped believing in the strength of family. Perhaps they would also recognize something of themselves in their great-grandchildren. A look. A gesture. A form of determination. Without always realizing it, all of us carry something within us from those who came before.
Perhaps that is also why I wrote this book. I do not want my children and grandchildren later to know only our names. I want them to know our stories. To know where we came from. What we lived through. What we dreamed about. Which mistakes we made. And how deeply we loved one another. A family does not continue living only in photographs, birth certificates, or documents. It lives in the stories told around the table.
In the values passed from one generation to the next. In a smile that suddenly recalls someone from long ago. And in the love that continues to connect people even when someone is no longer physically present. When I look at my life today, I therefore do not want only to count what was taken from me. I want to continue seeing what I was given as well. Dorina. Marco. Michael. My four grandchildren.
My family. My friends. And all the memories no one will ever be able to take from me. That is not little. It is my greatest wealth. The pain remains. But so does the love. And as long as that love continues to live, loss is never the only thing that remains. Gratitude remains. Gratitude for those who were there. For those who are still here. And for everything that will continue to connect us forever.
