Treviso, Italy. September 10, 1891
Maria and Antonio De Rossi had been married for almost six years. They were told this would be their last chance for a child. There had been several miscarriages before, and so they both more than a little worried about the delivery.
Antonio stood by the door, waiting anxiously.
"Your wife is going to be all right, and you're going to have a beautiful child," said the nurse.
Finally, there came the sound of a baby crying. At once, he and the nurse rushed into the bedroom.
"It is a boy!" said the doctor. In his arms, he held a delicate little angel.
The wailing bambino stretched his limbs out and kicked restlessly. But when he was precariously handed to the arms of his mother, he began to relax.
Maria held her infant son. So precious, so delicate, so tiny. He was beautiful, both outside and inside, she could see. Tenderly, she caressed his soft face. His hair was black and wavy, his lips and cheeks were light red, his eyes looked like two tiny points of warm light, and the beginnings of a smile formed at the corners of his mouth.
The couple had decided on the name early on.
Fabrizio, which means one who is skillful of the hands.
Her husband knelt beside her, and then held his new son in his own arms.
He is truly mine, he thought. He was conceived in the deepest of love and of hope. He kissed the baby's face, hair, and tiny, perfect hands.
Fabrizio's gold-brown eyes opened slightly, then halfway, and a sweet smile lit his face.
After nursing her newborn that night, Maria laid him gently in his crib. She watched him for a while as he slept. Antonio sat next to them and said, "I believe he must have a great destiny for somewhere or someone."
Maria agreed. Fabrizio had certainly made a difference in their lives.