Sicily in February is never truly cold, yet it possesses a subtle humidity that rises from the bones—a damp breath that tastes of a land preparing to give birth. When Belinda crossed the threshold of her mother-in-law Anna's house, she was met by the familiar scent of slow-cooked ragù, furniture wax, and cleanliness. It was like immersing herself in an amniotic fluid made of memories and certainties. Anna was not a woman of many words, but her arms were a safe harbor. When she welcomed Belinda, she did not ask how she was—the scars of the spirit and the signs of weary kidneys were written across her pale face—she simply held her with a strength that tasted of earth and roots.
"Lay down your thoughts, figghia mia. I am here now," Anna murmured against her hair, and in that embrace, Belinda felt, for the first time in months, the sword of Damocle above her head finally stop swaying. Anna welcomed Azzurra as well, kissing her with that warmth only Sicilian grandmothers can emanate: a warmth that smells of talcum powder and absolute protection, capable of healing even the deepest fears of a twelve-year-old who had watched her mother vanish into the darkness.
However, Belinda's new reality required more than mere moral comfort. The chronic fatigue caused by renal failure often made her a shadow of herself, unable to manage the frantic rhythms of a large house and her online shop, which, despite the drama, continued to generate orders from all over the world. It was Elia who decided that a concrete hand was needed—someone who was not just a housekeeper, but a motor of pure energy capable of lifting the material burdens from Belinda's shoulders.
That was how Tiziana arrived.
When Tiziana crossed the threshold for the first time, the room seemed suddenly smaller, saturated by her vibrant presence. She was not a tall woman, but she radiated a physical power that inspired a sense of awe. She had a cascade of blonde curls that seemed to have a life of their own, always in motion, and two bright green eyes, deep and watchful like those of a wild cat. Her physique was that of a born athlete: broad shoulders, arms with rippling, toned muscles, and firm legs that allowed her to move with feline speed from one room to another. Tiziana was not a woman of formal education—her grammar was often stumbling and her dialect rough as volcanic stone—but she possessed a practical wisdom and a vitality that swept over Belinda like a river in flood.
"Donna Belinda, you must sit and do your beautiful things with your needle. I'll take care of the rest. Not a grain of dust shall remain here, and Azzurra needs to eat well; she looks a bit too wasted away to be a ballerina," Tiziana began, taking possession of the kitchen with a decisiveness that allowed no rebuttal, clattering pots and pans as if they were instruments in an orchestra.
In a short time, Tiziana became the family's benevolent shadow. She cleaned with a fervor that seemed aimed at scouring the illness itself from the walls; she cooked light, nutritious meals suited to Belinda's restrictive diet; she accompanied Azzurra to dance class, and with her tireless energy, she seemed to absorb the gray exhaustion that lingered in the rooms. It wasn't just work; it was a muscular dedication, a burgeoning force that Belinda observed with admiration. Seeing Tiziana lift heavy baskets or scrub the floors with a resilience that knew no respite reminded Belinda of how her own health was now a cracked crystal, but at the same time, it made her feel protected by a shell of vigor that was not her own.
The month of February brought with it Imbolc, the ancient festival of returning light, the moment when seeds begin to quiver in the darkness of the earth, presaging the spring. Although Belinda had sworn never again to practice the "great magic" that had nearly killed her, this was a celebration of purification and hope—something that belonged to the natural rhythm of the seasons rather than the greed of men.
It was Anna who suggested a small domestic celebration to mark the new beginning. "We must wash away the winter that has remained inside you, Belinda. Imbolc is the festival of the bride, of the white light that cleanses the blood."
On the evening of February 1st, the villa was illuminated not by electric bulbs, but by dozens of small white candles of pure beeswax. There was no emerald green light of the past—that light charged with material demands and dark vibrations. There was only a milky, soft glow that softened the corners of the eyes and warmed the heart. Anna, Belinda, Azzurra, and even Tiziana—who watched everything with her cat-like eyes, intrigued by these rites that tasted of the ancient world—gathered in the garden, under the shade of the great lemon tree.
Anna prepared a decoction of purifying herbs gathered at dawn and used it to symbolically dampen the threshold of the house. Azzurra, with her innate grace as a dancer, lit the final candle placed at the center of the table. Belinda wrote on a piece of parchment—not a request for gold, but a prayer for health, resilience, and peace. She still felt the dull weight of her kidneys, that fatigue that at times clouded her vision, but she also felt the warmth of Anna's hand on her shoulder and the silent strength of Tiziana beside her.
"May the light purify our path and protect those we love," Anna recited in a low voice, her figure appearing like a millennial oak in the darkness of the garden. Tiziana, with her usual bluntness, added a sonorous "Amen," crossing her muscular arms over her chest in a gesture of respect. To her, it was just a strange evening, but she felt the air finally changing, losing the taste of medicine to rediscover the taste of life.
As the candles burned slowly, Belinda let herself sink against the back of her chair, closing her eyes. Azzurra took her hand, and in that contact, Belinda understood that her renal failure, though a clinical sentence, was not an existential one. She could live with her sword of Damocles, for she now had a safety net woven by extraordinary women: the ancestral wisdom of Anna, the blossoming beauty of Azzurra, and the vital, almost wild strength of Tiziana.
That night, Belinda slept a deep sleep, free of nightmares. The house was clean, her heart had been washed by the white light of Imbolc, and the presence of Tiziana—resting in the next room, ready to spring into action at the first ray of sun—gave her a new sense of security. The magic of gold had vanished, leaving room for the magic of care, made of hands that nurture and a strength that asks for nothing in return but the right to exist.