Looking up, he saw his car had been neatly reversed out of the birthing centre and was waiting for them to drive it away. The number plate was cracked. One of the headlights had smashed. The bonnet didn’t quite close properly. But the damage looked superficial. Beyond the space where there had once been a glass panel, there was a large group of people clustered, watching the building, but he didn’t pay them any attention. He didn’t notice the colour of the sky or the flash of the cameras, he only knew the warmth of Cris’s hand held tight in his own.

‘Karl!’ one of the group shouted. ‘I know who you are! Cris! Karl!’ It was a young man running up to them, buttoned shirt, piercing blue eyes, expression determined, unabashed. ‘What happened?’ he demanded. ‘Can you tell us anything?’

Karl looked at him, confused. Who were these people? What right did they have to be making demands of him? He noticed that young woman again, the one who’d been taking photos with her phone – she was with them.

‘My grandson died,’ he said simply. ‘Now leave us alone.’

Cris put his arm around him, and he was grateful, and together they walked away.

Karl was silent in the car, but not withdrawn – as Cris drove, calmly, through London he watched his face, marvelling at how much he loved him, and how rarely he told him. ‘I’ll get the glass out of your hand,’ he said. ‘We’ve got antiseptic and … I’ll make sure it’s OK.’ He reached up to stroke his arm, and Cris smiled without taking his eyes from the road. And then as they pulled into their driveway they noticed, at the same time, that the lights inside the house were on.

He ran up the path and fumbled for his keys.

‘Kaz?’ he was shouting, ‘Kaz?’ There was a shadow in the living room, blocking the light through the blinds. Too high to be someone sitting down. Was it too high to be someone standing? Karl felt his insides twist. ‘Kaz?’ he whispered, dropping the keys, picking them up again.

Finally he got the door open and ran inside, Cris close behind him, and they burst into the living room and there was Kaz, standing on a stepladder. He was positioning a photograph on the wall. It was a picture of them, of their family.

‘You’re here,’ Karl said, out of breath, and Kaz turned. He had been crying.

‘Do I have this up straight?’

‘It’s perfect,’ Cris said, soft concern in his voice. ‘It looks good, son.’

Slowly, Kaz climbed back down the stepladder, turned to face his dads and took a deep breath. Karl felt his heart fracture again.