Francesca – known to everyone as Franci – is 66 years old; a seamstress, she repairs clothes in the living room of her apartment building on the outskirts of Milan, northern Italy. She supplements her meager pension.

All you have to do is ring the doorbell, go upstairs, hand over the item to be repaired, and come back a couple of days later to pick it up, ready and done. No appointment is necessary. Payment is cash only. Prices are low, very low indeed.

Most of her customers come because they have little money: pensioners, a few immigrants, people without great pretensions. That’s fine with Franci.

—

Alejandro, half Italian and half Venezuelan, about twenty years old, shows up at Franci’s on a Tuesday morning. His jacket is too big. The sleeves cover his hands, frayed at the hems. Near the collar, the fabric shines from wear.

“How much will it cost to fix it? I have a job interview on Friday…” he asks, staring at the floor.

“Leave it with me and come back tomorrow afternoon.”

Franci says nothing about the price.

—

Franci spends more than two hours on that jacket. She measures, shortens, reshapes. She replaces missing buttons. She sews up small tears and fixes the hems. She erases years of wear with steam and an iron.

It’s a job worth more than thirty euros.

—

Wednesday afternoon. Alejandro looks at his reflection in the mirror in Franci’s living room. He’s wearing his jacket. It looks new. Tailor-made.

“I’d forgotten…” he says softly. Then, turning to Franci: “I’d forgotten I could look like this.”

He pulls seven euros from his jeans pocket and smooths them on the table. “That’s all I have right now. I’ll bring you the rest.”

“Seven euros – that’s the price. That’s fine,” she says.

Alejandro hesitates, then looks her in the eyes. “The interview on Friday is my first in three months. Thanks to you, I’ll be able to try. I’ll be able to show up without shame.”

—

In a living room that smells of steam and old fabrics, Franci realizes that many people stop trying not because they’ve given up, but because no one gives them the small help they need.

Sometimes it takes very little – maybe just a couple of hours – to change a life. To matter.

So she spreads the word: “PROMOTION. Repairs for job interviews. Pay what you can.”

—

Thanks to the PROMOTION, new customers arrive.

All young people in their twenties.

Work on shirts, trousers, and jackets increases; she has never repaired so many.

Customers pay what they can, sometimes only a few euros. That’s fine with Franci, she knows none of them are trying to cheat her. Some bring a cake or cookies baked by their mothers.

Without exception, they all say the same thing: they’ve been looking for work for months. It’s tough.

And without exception, those who get hired come back – with a handful of euros and a heavy dose of gratitude.

Franci has never earned so much, thanks to the PROMOTION.

—

Alejandro, the half Italian, half Venezuelan young man, returns a year later. He looks good. He’s wearing an inexpensive suit – one that fits him well – and polished black leather shoes.

“I’ve just been promoted to supervisor at the warehouse where I was hired last year, thanks to your help,” he says, proud.

He places two fifty-euro bills on the table. “…to help those who come after me.”

Andy Cavallini