“It’s all over, sweetheart.” “Is Dario ever coming back?” “No,” I said.

“Never.” He nodded once, satisfied in the uncomplicated way of a child who has been told the true thing plainly, and went back to his cake.

My mother reached under the table and squeezed my hand, and my father looked at me with a quiet pride he did not have words for and did not need them.

That was the whole of it.

No trumpets.