We each have one hand on the pram handle. Pacing in parallel, like stags in rutting season, we monitor each other from the corners of our eyes. My son and her daughter walk behind in silence. The pram wobbles over a crack in the pavement. My free hand grabs the handle to steady it. So does hers. We simultaneously lean in, white knuckled, to coo at our perfect, sleeping grandson, snug in his stripy blanket. We watch to see who’ll be first to relinquish their grip. Our children move to either side of us. We look like a happy family.