It took memory and a lot of love to write the story of my life. In a novel, you can say whatever you imagine, move your characters as you wish, make them say what you think. But when the people are real, you can't make even the slightest mistake, since none of them can confirm or deny you anymore. Fortunately, I have my sister, and her memory is infallible, and her life intertwines with mine. As soon as she read what I wrote, she said to me: "That's how we lived, that's how those we knew and loved were." "Now," I tell her, "now that you remember our story again, would you have wanted to live another life?" "Not at all," she replied spontaneously. "Not at all," I added too.