“Your father’s in his study with the morning paper.

Go say hello before we serve.”

My father sat behind the oak desk in the corner room, his wire-rimmed reading glasses balanced on the end of his nose.

He held a linen handkerchief in one hand and was polishing the lenses over and over in slow circles.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he rumbled, his voice low and unhurried.

He put the handkerchief down and held out an arm for Emma.

Emma ran to his knee, clutching Barnaby.