When Sonia left home, her twin Marzia locked herself in her room to cry without restraint. Twenty years always together, never divided, and now all ended for a trivial reason, because her father had not accepted the truth, had not accepted Sonia.
He should have, there were just the three of them. Now they were only two.
She did not see Sonia again for five long years.
Only letters, each from a different place. Letters of pure joy, exuding love and happiness.
Marzia found herself spending her empty days minding her father, closed in his silence, envying and even hating her sister, who had had the courage to reveal herself, to deal with their father's bigotry and live free, chasing her love.
The months slipped away like grains of an hourglass inexorably and marked the young face of Marzia as wounds of a war fought against loneliness that harbored in her heart broken.
Then that foggy day the car accident and death, as a liberation never hoped for, but secretly longed for. Not even having to deal with his father's legacy, who left only debts and degradation, seemed a punishment for those petty thoughts.
"Come back home, Sonia," she wrote, "this house is still yours."
But she received no answer, for long weeks.
Then one day she found Sonia at the door, her face ashen, sunken and swollen eyes. "Laura is dead," she could only say, before collapsing to the ground, there on the threshold, shaken by sobs uncontrollably, as if mourning had come out in one fell swoop.
Marzia did not know how to fill the void in Sonia's heart, but secretly she was happy because hers was now filled.
Now everything would be back to the origin, the two halves again together.
So she thought, deceiving herself.
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