I'm approaching 40, juggling motherhood, and asking myself an existential question: Did I peak at wrongful imprisonment? How am I going to explain it all to my daughter, who's already asking to hear the story of Mama Goes To Italy? /thread

For a long time, I thought that my years in Italy were a nightmare that would hang over me forever. But Italy doesn't have to be a nightmare for me. Italy is beautiful. There's a reason I went there to begin with. Ciao Italia.

I heard the Palermo Symphony Orchestra perform Rachmaninov's third in an ancient amphitheater in Taormina. I erupted at Mt. Etna.

And I walked through Venice and Milan and Rome, head high.

I also visited the Perugia Courthouse where I was convicted and sentenced to 26 years, where crowds of locals chanted "Vergogna!" (Shame!) when I was acquitted.

And I just returned from Italy, where went to see Don Saulo, the priest who held my hand through those years of darkness when my family couldn't.

I have returned to Italy several times since then. Once to sit down face to face with my prosecutor. Once to defend myself in 2024 for my last remaining wrongful conviction--a lesser charge I appealed to the European Court of Human Rights.

I am so grateful to be a mom. To have pursued my dream of writing. To have a career and a family and a future.

15 years later, I am still so grateful to be home.

I watched her chest rise and fall for hours. Around 3 am, Steve poked in to check on us. "You okay?" he asked. "I'm afraid to fall asleep," I said. "I'm afraid I'll wake up back in my cell." "It's not a dream," he reassured me.

My mom and I brushed our teeth side by side in the bathroom, laughing at the absurdity of finally sharing space for this simple domestic ritual. She passed out soon after, but I couldn't sleep. My heart was still racing.

She dialed and I talked, and cried, saying hi to all my family and friends, one by one. Steve lost the media, and we eventually made it to a safehouse in Rome. He secured the perimeter and guided us inside.

I was crying and hugging her while Steve tried to lose our tail. Mom said my stepdad was behind us, trying to slow them down, his car getting rammed by paparazzi. She handed me her phone so I could call all the family, but I couldn't figure it out. I'd never seen a touchscreen.

We skidded to a stop, the driver left, and a new man hopped in the driver seat. He said his name was Steve. He identified himself as a former FBI Special Agent. A moment later, my mom dove into the backseat and we sped into the darkness again.

I was shuttled into a car driven by a man I'd never met. There were throngs of paparazzi crowded outside the prison. The driver peeled out, trying to lose them, speeding down windy roads through the hills of Umbria with his headlights off.

Back at my cell, I took my family photos and letters. I left most of my clothes and other belongings to my fellow inmates. I didn't get a chance to say goodbye to the priest, Don Saulo, who'd become my best friend while inside.

I watched one of them get attacked by another woman who'd balled up a gluestick and mashed it into her palms before jumping on her and ripping her hair out.

Many of them were Nigerian and Romani. I'd translated their love letters to their boyfriends on the outside, and their medical issues to the Italian prison doctor. I played cards with them, and rolled out pizza dough with a broomstick with them.

Back at the prison, everyone was chanting "Libertà! Libertà!" Men and women were banging pots and pans on their cell bars. They gave me five minutes to grab my things and say goodbye. I ran down the hallways touching the hands of women I'd spent the last four years with.

After my acquittal, on October 3rd, 2011, I collapsed in the courtroom, sobbing. The prison guards at my side thought I'd misunderstood the verdict. "You won!" they said. One even told me he'd won twenty euro betting I'd be set free.