There was a knock, and my father came in carrying two bakery bags, in a plain navy sweater, looking a decade younger than he had in that gray coat.

He had retired early — the sharp, tired chairman who used to line the financial pages had become a man whose proudest daily accomplishment was building wooden train tracks across a living-room rug.

“Am I interrupting the managing partner?” he said, setting an almond croissant in front of me.

“Never.” I came around the desk and hugged him.

“How’s Felix?”

“Asleep like a king,” he said, nodding toward the small nursery off my office.

“He chased pigeons for two hours until his legs quit.