I still remember the day I told my mother I was going to start working. She stared at me for a long time, in silence, before lowering her eyes, and, because of that look of hers, my work has always weighed on me like a sin. Mirella disapproves of this feeling, I know perfectly well. Maybe she even despises it and intends, by the way she lives her life, to rebel against me. She doesn’t understand that it was I who made her free, I with my life racked between the old, reassuring traditions and the call of new demands. It was up to me. I’m the bridge she’s taken advantage of, the way young people take advantage of everything, cruelly, without even noticing that they’re taking, without paying attention. Now I, too, can collapse.