Meu pai me chamou de inútil no casamento da minha irmã — até os fuzileiros surgirem e calarem todos.

The clatter of cutlery against the plates seemed louder than it should have been that night. Perhaps because no one there was truly hungry. The restaurant was on the top floor of an old hotel in Curitiba, one of those with exaggerated chandeliers and silent waiters who seemed trained not to react to anything. It was drizzling outside, and the drops trickled down the enormous windows behind Heitor's family's table as if the entire city were blurred. I remember exactly the smell of my wet coat. The lump tightening in my throat.