The Final Months of a Fighter
When people think today about the final months of Marco's life, many see above all the tragic end. I see something else. I see a man who, until the very last moment, did everything within his power not to disappoint his dream, his colleagues, and the people he loved. That is the image I want to preserve of him.
After our journey to Egypt, Dorina and I returned home with renewed hope. That journey had brought us even closer together. We had spoken a great deal about the past. But also about the future. I hoped that a more peaceful chapter of life would finally begin for Marco too.
But we had barely returned when I noticed that he had already immersed himself completely in his work again. He had rented the Glass Pyramid once more. The offices were coming back to life. The computers were turned on again. New colleagues joined the team. New projects began. New ideas once again filled the space. Anyone who walked through the doors of the Glass Pyramid felt the same energy that had characterized our finest years.
But deep inside me, a worry was growing too. It was as though Marco no longer allowed himself a single moment of rest. He worked day and night. He wanted to prove it was still possible. That our ideas still had a future. That all the work completed over the years had not been in vain. I admired his courage.
But as his father, I began to worry more and more. Not because I doubted his abilities. Quite the opposite. I knew exactly what he was capable of. What worried me was the price he was paying. I saw fatigue in his eyes more and more often. He continued smiling. He continued making plans.
But the exhaustion became increasingly difficult to hide. And yet he barely spoke about it. That was who he was. He wanted to solve every problem himself. He did not want to be a burden to anyone. Not even to me. More than once, I tried to make him understand that he did not have to carry everything alone. That every human being has the right to admit when life becomes too heavy.
But his answer was almost always the same.
"Dad... let me try a little longer."
Today, that single word is what breaks my heart most. Longer. Because he truly did continue trying. He felt responsible not only for the success of our projects. He felt responsible for the people who worked beside him. The investments. The expectations. The promises he had made. And perhaps more than anything else... the dreams he himself had created. Looking back, I better understand how heavily that responsibility weighed on him.
He began taking upon himself things no human being can carry alone. He took on the faults of others. He felt responsible for failures that were, in reality, the result of unforeseen circumstances, decisions made by others, or the disappearance of support on which he had relied. Slowly, that guilt became an invisible burden. A burden that grew a little heavier every day. As his father, I saw his fatigue.
But at that time, I did not understand how deep the wound was. I believed that time, love, and new opportunities would help him rise again. Just as I had risen after the crisis of 1981. I wanted to believe he too would be able to do so. And perhaps he still believed it himself. Even then, he continued making plans. He continued searching for solutions. He continued hoping.
That is why I do not want to describe those final months as months of surrender. They were the months of a fighter. Of a man who gave everything he still had within him. Of a man who perhaps demanded far too much of himself precisely because he did not want to disappoint anyone.
And that is exactly why I still carry such profound sorrow today. Not because he did not do enough.
But because perhaps he carried far too much. When I think back on that time today, I have only one wish. To be able to hold him in my arms one more time. Not to give him solutions. Not to change the future. But simply to tell him:
"Marco...
You do not have to carry everything alone. You are not alone. You are my son. And whatever happens... I will always love you." Those are words every father hopes he said often enough. And yet, when the person you love is no longer there, they always seem far too few.
But there is one thing of which I am absolutely certain. My love reached him. Just as his love reached me. Even when we needed no words for it. Love does not end when a life ends. It only finds a new place. Today, it no longer lives in our daily conversations. It lives in my memories. In my heart. And now also in the pages of this book. So that he will not be remembered only for his final day.
But above all, for the man he was throughout his life. Marco. My son. My traveling companion. My friend. And an extraordinary human being.