Page 119 of My Italian Love Affair

I swallow down the lump in my throat.

Thisis real charity work.

Not showing up for an hour or two, handing over a few toys that cost less than one percent of a footballer’s weekly salary and posing for some carefully curated photos.

Not shaking a few hands, tousling a kid’s hair and then disappearing back into their million-euro lifestyles, patting themselves on the back for their generosity.

The thought disgusts me, makes my stomach twist with something ugly.

Giuseppeis the one who deserves a camera in his face - not these idiots.

I push it all down as the children start filtering into the main room, and the frustration I feel momentarily dissolves.

They areadorable.

Most of them are hesitant at first, clinging to the edges of the group, their dark eyes flitting between the unfamiliar faces.Some look up at the players with open admiration, wide-eyed at the real-life footballers standing in front of them while others remain skeptical, unconvinced that these men will be worth their time.

They speak mostly in Italian, their voices soft and uncertain. Giuseppe explains that some are learning English, but it isn’t a priority.

“They have more important things to worry about,” he says.

I nod, understanding completely.

I crouch down, offering a smile, and slowly, a few of them warm up.

One little girl in particular catches my attention. She can’t be older than five or six, with tight curls framing her round face and a gap in her smile where her front tooth used to be. Her tiny hands clutch a well-loved stuffed rabbit, its fur worn thin in patches, its ears slightly frayed.

She doesn’t say a word. She just watches me.

Big, dark eyes fixed on mine, her expression unreadable, but filled with something that tugs deep in my chest.

Curiosity? Caution?

Hope?

I tilt my head at her.

She tilts hers back.

A smile tugs at my lips. I arch a brow, playing along, and widen my eyes dramatically. She mimics me, her own brows furrowing in exaggerated concentration.

And then, she grins.

It’s a shy little thing - quick and fleeting - but it’sthere.

And as if she’s just made the most important decision of herlife, she steps forward with great determination, clutching her rabbit just a little tighter. Then, without a single word, she plops it directly into my lap.

Something in my chest squeezes, and I blink down at the rabbit, slightly stunned.

I’ve never been the best with children. Hardly the most experienced.

Still, I suppose I can’t go too wrong here, and I pick the rabbit up gently, handling it with the kind of reverence it deserves, brushing my fingers over its worn ears and sagging body.

After a long, veryseriousmoment, I nod with what I hope appears to be great importance.

“This,” I say solemnly, “is averygood rabbit.”

I know she won’t understand the words, but I hope - god, Ihope- she understands the meaning behind them.

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