Every day she would wake up at the same time, get out of bed, wash her face, comb her hair, get dressed, prepare herself something to eat, fix breakfast for the children and coffee for her husband, feed the canary, clean the kitchen, and go to work. On her way back home, she would stop at the super market, cook lunch, sit down to eat with the children, clean the kitchen, throw a load in the washer, dry and fold the clothes, mop the floor, water the plants, help the children with their homework, ring her mother, go over the bills and other mail, prepare the shopping list for next day, cook supper, eat with the children and her husband, clean the kitchen, read the little one a story, scold the older children for making a mess, shower, make love to her husband, spread night cream on her face, and go to bed.
One day, she didn't wake up anymore.
After the children, grandchildren, friends and other acquaintances left, her husband, who had not had to do anything for fifty-five years, opened the closet where he thought she might have kept his winter sweaters. From top to bottom, the closet was full of pages written in a tiny, orderly and almost incomprehensible handwriting. He looked at them wondering when she had found the time to write all that. And since it was too bothersome to go over them and his eyes were not what they used to be, he decided that he would use them to line the floor after mopping it. He was sure she would've liked that.
Translated by Lina Strenio