Before he became the revered Pope Francis, Jorge Mario Bergoglio was just a young boy in Buenos Aires, full of dreams—and one of those dreams was love.
As the world mourns his passing on April 21 at 88, stories of his humility and spiritual leadership flood in. However, hidden in the memories of Buenos Aires is a different side of him—a boy with dreams of a life with the girl who captured his heart. Her name was Amalia Damonte, his first love. They grew up just blocks apart in the Flores neighborhood, sharing childhood moments playing on sidewalks, dancing in parks, and simply being together. Love blossomed between them. “He was mature, wonderful,” Amalia once recalled. “We were very humble, we loved the poor, and in that, we were soulmates.”
At just 12 years old, their bond felt more than fleeting teenage affection. They exchanged handwritten letters—tangible symbols of love before the age of texting and social media.
In one of these letters, Jorge Mario wrote something that would shape his future: “If I don’t marry you, I will become a priest.” He meant it sincerely. He even envisioned a future with her, sketching a house with “a red roof and white walls” where they would grow old together.
But fate intervened when Amalia’s parents discovered their love letters. “My mother found the letter and gave me a beating,” Amalia remembered. “I begged Jorge Mario not to see me anymore. It was just a childish thing.” Yet, despite the pain, their love wasn’t childish—it was real. Their story might have ended there, but Amalia never forgot the boy who dreamed of a life with her.
True to his word, Jorge Mario let go of that future and embraced his calling to the priesthood. He was ordained just before turning 33, embarking on a journey that would take him to Germany, Córdoba, and eventually the Vatican.
In 2013, after the resignation of Pope Benedict XVI, Jorge Mario became the 266th Pope, taking the name Francis. He embodied simplicity, peace, and a deep care for the poor, yet in the background of his extraordinary life, there remained Amalia—the girl with whom he once dreamed of a red-roofed house.
As the world bid farewell to Pope Francis on April 26 in St. Peter’s Square, attended by world leaders and millions of mourners, Amalia, in Argentina, likely still remembers the boy who almost chose her—Jorge, not the Pope, but a boy in love with a future that never came to be.
