That evening, Renata spread her song sheet across the living room rug and insisted that I sing the second verse with her.

“You are too loud,” she told me after the first attempt.

“I have been accused of worse.”

“You sound like the man who announces the grocery store specials.”

I tried the verse again, more quietly, and she gave me a solemn nod.

“Better.

Now you sound like a normal daddy.”

She had placed Elena’s photograph on the low shelf beside her books.