In this photo, my mom had just turned 18. She was about to finish high school at a classical lyceum, where only eight students made it to graduation—two girls and six boys. Most of them were children of doctors, professors, or lawyers, but she was the only one whose parents were an electrician and a homemaker. My grandparents had only finished elementary school, and every day she had to wake up at five in the morning to take the bus with working men to get to school.
By her last year, her grandfather on her father’s side told her it was time to get a job. They were looking for a secretary—a well-paid, respectable role for a young woman. My mom was an excellent student and didn’t want to stop learning, but there wasn’t enough money for her to continue studying. Then one night, her father, my grandfather Lidio, called her aside and said: “This money was saved for your dowry. Take it and go to university. You can always buy sheets later.”
It was 1960, and my grandfather didn’t even have a middle school education. He had been an orphan from a young age, yet he was forward-thinking. He had two daughters, and when people told him, “Too bad you didn’t have a boy,” he would always answer that his daughters were the best gift life had given him.
My mom finished her degree in five years, studying in the mornings and tutoring in the afternoons to support herself. She became a teacher, and after retiring, she began writing books and editing theses—all because of a working-class father who, in 1960, chose to invest in her education instead of household goods. My grandfather was a true hero.