I could have told him that those thirty plastic cups had spoken a truth I had kept silent for eight years.

But he was six.

“Because nobody at that party,” I said, “was hungry for simple soup that day.”

“Did you get to eat your soup that morning?” he asked.

I went still for a moment, remembering the chaos of that day — how I had been so wholly focused on getting through it that I had not eaten a thing.

“No, sweetie,” I said.

“I didn’t eat anything that day.”