Three in the afternoon. Sense Irun-Brinkola. In the four-place compartment, one empty seat, fuck. I find it uncomfortable to sit next to those who know each other, because it's not easy to stay for an hour without listening. Yes, I know it's not polite to hear anything other than yourself, but every time I travel by train I think the lives of those around me are very interesting and, by an irresistible force, turning on WiFi.

I've tried to get into the book that I'm holding in my hands, I swear. But in an instant, I was struck by the silence that occurred when the tunnel sounded, and I let the instinct of the curious invade me. “I don’t think it’s very normal,” one concluded. It took me a while to realize the thrust of the debate, but I caught it: apparently, a friend of the crew breast-feeds the child who is going to be two years old and the rest of the friends are concerned; the sick mother does not realize that she is too little to be hanging from her chest.

It is truly astonishing to hear how the arguments of some nourish the arguments of others. With social conviction, the conversation, which has begun with apparent serenity, has gone like all the good works in crescendo and, before realizing it, the alleged anxiety of friends has become a district shame. It is said that age makes innocence a vice, necessity a whim. And so in a few months, the good mother has become unconscious hippy. On the verge of the last stop, the Members of the European Parliament have had no choice but to resolve the debate. It has been apothetical: the repatriation of a two-year-old baby who has been taken out of breast anywhere has been declared.

I've searched the mobile for the meaning of the word aberration. “Get out of what seems normal and logical,” the dictionary says. As if I wanted to reach the brains of their peers, I recalled that the World Health Organization recommends that the child be fed only with the breast for the first six months, and with the food supplements until the child is at least two years old. In other words, the expiration date of breast milk is defined exclusively by the mother and child. There's no need to worry, I don't know a teenager who claims his mother's chest.
I want to know how many women who are mothers have found themselves helpless with their shadow, how many have judged their decisions, how many have felt the infantilization of their own existence. I don't want to blame the roommates in front of me, because I think motherhood has too many pollutants that blur the north: too many myths, judgments, lies and scams. Therefore, if I were a mother, I would like to be aware of this contamination, as conscious as the “unconscious hippies”. “Pi-pi-pi. End of the journey. Don’t leave anything forgotten on the train.”