Virginica Constantinescu, known to all as Lala, came into the world on January 15, 1943, in Romania’s Iași, a place as tough and unyielding as she’d grow to be. Shy to the bone, stubborn as stone, and proud in a way that dared you to challenge her, she lived a life that didn’t bend easy—not for love, not for time. She never married or had kids of her own, but poured her quiet strength into raising her niece Andra, stepping in where her sister Dodo faltered. That strength carried her far: an engineering degree in industrial chemistry from The Gheorghe Asachi Technical University fueled years of work in textile companies, her hands steady and mind sharper than most. At 82, living in Canada with Andra, Julio, and their two boys, she’s a force softened only by age’s slow tug, her presence a riddle—hard to crack, impossible to forget.
Lala’s days hum with puzzles—Sudoku and Rubik’s cubes keep her wits keen, while Spanish lessons on Duolingo stay locked in her silent world, never spoken aloud. She crafts borscht with a passion that turns the kitchen to chaos, all for a single bowl she’ll savor, her picky taste shrugging off anything less. The grandkids clamber into her bed at night, met with grumbles she doesn’t mean—she lets them stay, her care a warm thread beneath the crust. Her eyes and ears dim now; you shout to reach her, and she’ll laugh when she misses your shadow’s dance, her mind still cutting through the haze. She mothers her rough-edged cousin Teddy in Romania from afar, and takes Julio’s teasing with a grin that betrays her delight. She and Dodo once bought a house together in Canada—an uneasy venture that sent her back to Romania for a time—until Andra and Julio called her home to help with their eldest, Matias. Lala’s loyalty is a rare gift: win her favor, and she holds you tight, fierce and unshakable.