Lily giggled wildly, thrilled by her own comedic genius. In the kitchen doorway, Mia stood drying her hands, watching with cautious, softening eyes.

Later that night, long after my parents’ taillights had disappeared down the street, Lily climbed into my lap on the couch.

“Is Grandpa Robert shy?” she asked, tracing the pattern on my shirt.

I thought about the fractured man who had just left my house. “A little bit,” I said.

“He needs practice,” she diagnosed confidently.

“Yes, sweetheart. He needs a lot of practice.”