My name was Monia Delpero

My name was Monia Delpero.
I was nineteen years old. I had my whole life ahead of me.

On the evening of December 13, 1989, I kissed my mother goodbye and said, “I’ll be back soon.” I never returned home.

I went to meet my ex-boyfriend. We had only been together for six months, but for him, it wasn’t over. He said he wanted the photos we had taken together. I trusted him. We were the same age. I believed that being kind was enough to stay safe.

It wasn’t.

He strangled me with his bare hands. Then he put my body in a garbage bag and threw it under a bridge in Manerbio, not far from my home.

My body was found three days later.

For three days, he joined the search for me. He pretended to worry. He pretended to cry. All the while, he knew exactly where I was.

He confessed. He was convicted.

He was sentenced to ten years and eight months. In reality, he served just over five.

On the day of my funeral, he was already under house arrest.

In prison, he earned a degree. Then he walked free. He got married. He had two children, a son and a daughter.

I wonder if he will ever tell his daughter to be careful of men like him.

He never apologized. Neither did his parents, who live only a few kilometers from my mother.

My mother’s name is Gigliola Bono.

For thirty-six years, she has fought for our family to be recognized as victims of the State, like families affected by terrorism or the mafia.

But in 1989, those laws did not exist. Now they do, and they say it is too late.

They say the law is not retroactive. They say Monia can wait. They say my mother must pay fifteen thousand euros in legal fees and wait another thirteen months because the highest court has postponed the case.

But I cannot wait.

I cannot live anymore.

And since the day I died, my mother has not truly lived either. She lives the life my killer forced on her.

My name was Monia Delpero.

And I have been waiting for justice for thirty-six years.