On a train in-between two destinations; Paris and London, all the questions that people had asked me about my story over the years began to land.

“How did you start living with another family at four years old for four years?”

A countryside passing at 186 miles per hour, in the reflection of the window, a flash of a memory finally appeared worthy of reflection.

Right before I left for this insane adventure that neither I nor the stranger who took me home ever expected, I asked my parents if they remembered themselves at four years old.

Startled and frightened by their responses, I was alone in my house. I decided to tip-toe in the dress I was wearing the day I left over to a spot in front of the mirrors that covered my mother’s office.

I stared at myself for as long as I felt I needed to. Once I felt secure in that regard, I wondered what was inside of me. I took off into my own eye and spaced-out. Suddenly, space began to bend and words flew into my body.

“Remember me.”

This phrase resonated very clearly—in my father’s superlative emphasis—with a feeling that broke me out of my state.

Whoa, I caught my reflection in the mirror.

It was just something that happened I couldn’t explain, but that was my whole childhood in a nutshell. It was the key to re-opening it on this train at twenty-six years old. I happened to have a notebook and pen; the beginning of my journey as a writer.

I started at the top—what did I remember?

The pen became an anchor and I never let it go. It took me home, provided me a foundation for a healthy one along with the possibility to find a place for all the narratives.

Writing is a magical and real act in one.

Thanks for reading and checking out my site!

I love you more than Maradona,

Maria