My name was Lisa Gherardini.

My name was Lisa Gherardini. I was born in Florence, on a June morning in 1479, just as the bells of Santa Maria del Fiore were ringing. My family was noble, but not wealthy. We had a name, a house, and little else. My father, Antonmaria, did what he could. We lived near Via Maggio, in the Oltrarno—Florence’s quieter side. Our house faced the sun in the morning. That’s what I remember most. At fifteen, I was married to Francesco del Giocondo. He was older, a silk and cloth merchant—respectable, successful, serious. Our marriage was not romantic. But it was solid. I gave him five children. I kept his house. I lit candles for the dead and prayed for the living. And then came the day he asked a painter to make my portrait. His name was Leonardo. He was not like the others. Quiet. Watchful. Strange. He did not speak of money or status or lineage. He asked about light. About the river. About my thoughts. He did not paint quickly. Or often. Or with any urgency at all. I sat for him many times. I wore my best gown, one with no jewels. Just cloth. He said he wanted me to look timeless. He painted slowly. He took the portrait with him to France. He kept it with him until the day he died. The painting became something else. Something no one expected. They called me La Gioconda—after my husband. In France, they called me Mona Lisa. For centuries, no one even knew my real name. But I was a Florentine woman. A daughter. A wife. A mother. I lost children. I lit candles. I aged. I wept. I prayed. I lived a quiet life in a city full of noise. I died in 1542, in a convent just outside Florence. No tombstone. No portrait beside me. No crowds. And yet now… the world stands before my face. They look into my eyes and ask, what are you thinking? They call me mysterious. Beautiful. Immortal. But I was never a mystery. I was a woman. And for a moment, someone truly saw me. I am Lisa Gherardini. You may know me as Mona Lisa. And this is the story of my life