I smiled and told him it was my pleasure. But before leaving, with a gesture that tightened my heart, he slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, took out his wallet, and offered me a ten-euro banknote. I was surprised, almost incredulous. I immediately refused: “Please, there’s no need, truly.” He insisted. He wanted to buy me breakfast, he said, to thank me in his own way.
I looked him in the eyes, thanked him warmly, but I couldn’t accept. He put the banknote away, thanked me again, and we said goodbye. As I watched him walk away, a knot stayed inside me — a feeling of deep melancholy. I thought of him and of all the elderly people who find themselves alone in the face of an increasingly digital, ruthless, inaccessible world.
They — our fathers, our grandfathers — built the country we live in. And today they find themselves excluded, lost in front of a screen, in a bank, in a hospital, in public offices. They can no longer access services they helped create, after a lifetime of work, sacrifice, and duty. And us? Where are we?
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