The Child Who Came Late

A year has passed since my first grandchild was born, and my life has been turned upside down.

The little one comes to stay with us every other week, and I can hardly bear the wait.

At the office, whenever I saw staff with family photographs on their desks, I used to look on coolly. A man, I thought, should keep such things discreetly out of sight; that was the proper masculine style. Yet here I am with pictures of my grandchild not only on my desk but in my drawer and as the wallpaper on my phone. So much for style.

When the baby arrives, sees me and reaches out both arms to be picked up, I am so happy that I lift the little one high into the air again and again.

When they leave, I count the days on my fingers until we meet again. Day and night, I think of the baby and grin to myself. It is a feeling rather like being in love.

The only difference is that it is so tiring I cannot last more than two or three hours.

In that respect, women, who can keep it up for as long as it takes, truly deserve admiration. Of my own children, I have almost no memories like these.

My wife, too, says in exasperation that she never knew I was like this, and I have no answer to that.

My working life, so like a combat sport, is entering its final chapter. Perhaps, deep down, there lies regret at never having played with my children. One morning, as I lay on my back on the living-room sofa writing these words, a thought pierced my heart like a revelation: this grandchild is not my grandchild at all, but in truth my own child.

And at that same moment there rose before me the image of my son as a small boy, playing alone in our cramped flat, hugging tight a teddy bear: the same faded teddy bear, more than thirty years old, that my wife had shown me the other day and that had left me speechless. The tears came pouring out.