Nowadays, Cipputi is frequently a woman, a foreigner, someone alone: the toils of working compounded with the strains of living far from ones beloved. Alienation is more similar to a rip and a sense of disorientation than to an assembly chain. Who knows how many times we happened to see in our cities two foreign women waiting for the bus, with their smiles on their worn out faces, their lumpish clothes, and their incomprehensible language. How many times have we seen them without really looking at them, without even asking ourselves what language they are speaking and what their story is? To see well, to see better, we need patience. Maura Delpero, an Italian woman, has given such look (hers and ours) the time necessary to enter the world of Nadea and Sveta, two women from Moldova who migrated to Bologna. They are friends. They are mothers of children far away. They stay by the side of our elderly and far from their own. Where's home? Where's work? And where are the children? What life is it if you have to choose between work and health, and between work and maternity? Nevertheless, there's strength in Nadea and Sveta. Yet, in the strenuous details of their days (caregiving, the bench, the dance hall, the phone call) there's a light: it's infinitely stronger than in all of our neurotic privileges. Maura Delpero was able to convey that light.