It’s evening. A man enters the kitchen, nervously fidgeting with his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt. His wife is sitting at the table, choosing a skating outfit for their youngest daughter.
He hesitates, clearly in distress, but then blurts out, “I’ve fallen in love with someone else.” She is stunned, deeply hurt by this revelation. She wants to immediately start questioning: who is she, how, when, where, why?
But she stops herself – first, they need to think about their three children, the media attention it will receive, and how to protect them. He adds, “Just the thought of you finding out through the newspapers… unbearable.”
However, according to Ilary Blasi in her recently published memoir “Che stupida. La mia verità” by Mondadori, it didn’t happen that way. She provides her version of the story, one that has been the subject of varying accounts – sometimes too much, sometimes too little, and sometimes inaccurate.
Should we believe her? Can we? Perhaps, it wouldn’t be difficult to recognize in Francesco Totti’s reluctance to confront the family crisis, his denial in the face of evidence, a certain male nonchalance towards couple problems.
But even if it didn’t happen that way (and frankly, only they know, and it matters little to us), one thing must be acknowledged about Ilary: she never attacked the Other. In her book, there’s not a word against Noemi Bocchi, the Mistress, whom some still insist on calling the husband-stealer, as if men were objects. Ilary Blasi, whether due to maturity or calculation (there’s a pending lawsuit), she never blames her.
In fact, in an interview with Chiara Maffioletti of 7 two weeks ago, she admitted, “I hope they are happy. At least it was worth it.” Too good to be true?
Maybe. However, the memoir’s pages, reconstructing (and preserving) all the love that existed, mainly pose unanswered questions to the only person entitled to answer: the Pupone. Loves begin and end, often without even luxury watches and handbags to share.
But at any latitude, inside a palace or a sixty-square-meter apartment, the ideal outcome is the one dreamed of by Ilary Blasi on the last page of her story: a plate of spaghetti to eat together in the kitchen at home. Because one may stop being a husband and a wife, but they don’t stop being parents. And that’s why (but not only that), to continue to care for each other.