Warren had come to the door carrying a small knitted blanket he’d bought from the hospital volunteer shop.

He stayed outside until I invited him in.

“Would you like to hold him?” I asked.

His face crumpled, but he waited until the nurse had helped me settle the baby.

When Oliver finally lay in his arms, Warren looked at him for a long time.

“My daughter,” he said softly, almost to himself.

“My grandson.”

I didn’t correct him.