December, 1981. My mom was five and a half months pregnant with me, the newest chapter in our family story. Every Christmas, like clockwork, they traveled to Italy to visit my grandmother. After my grandfather passed in 1978, she had returned to her homeland, leaving America behind. What was meant to be a two-week holiday quickly took an unexpected turn.
Arriving in Italy, they discovered my grandmother’s health had declined. The short visit extended into a much longer stay, weeks blending into months, as my mother’s pregnancy progressed. By the time my grandmother recovered, it was too late for my mom to fly back to Philadelphia safely. In 1981, the rules for pregnant women traveling internationally were different—airlines allowed travel until about six months—but fate had other plans.
And so, I was born in Italy. Not by accident, but by a chain of circumstances that would change the course of my life before I even took my first breath.
Looking back, I love that twist of fate. It gave me something I treasure: dual citizenship. A literal connection to my heritage, a tie to my grandmother’s resilience, and a story I’ve carried all my life—a reminder of how history, family, and fate can collide in the most unexpected, beautiful ways.
