One year ago, a father's racist politics had poisoned the relationship with his son. Now, the birth of a child has brought about a subtle change
After more than a day of labour, Baby Finn forced his way into the world: 5lb 11oz, beautiful, healthy and wondrous. Dizzy with pride for my partner and son, I wanted to tell the entire world, one by one. Except, that is, for my own father.
He'd made clear his lack of interest in our mixed-race child, so what must be life's greatest phone call was taken from me by his irrational hatred of difference. In truth though, nothing could sully the joy of Finn's arrival. If the third world war had broken out, it would have been a footnote to my day.
Collecting myself in the autumn air outside St Thomas' hospital, London, where not even the gothic splendour of the Palace of Westminster could impress after seeing what Mira had gone through to bring Finn into the world, I rang Mira's mother. The happiness doubled and the news would be distributed among the Patels at a speed Twitter could only dream of.
Now for my lot. If I rang the family home, the only person in the world I didn't want to speak to would answer. We hadn't spoken in months and he didn't deserve – or desire – the good news. On this day, especially, I didn't want to hear his voice.
Given the length of the labour, I had been able to warn my mum that we were heading for the hospital and to turn her mobile phone on. (For reasons best known to the elderly, mobile phones are usually turned off when not in use to "save the battery", even when childbirth is imminent.)
Mum was overwhelmed to hear the news that she had a fifth grandchild. It was an unexpected treat for her late in life as it had been 16 years since the last one, and he's already shaving. She knew how happy Mira and I were, and hoped we'd bring her a baby to love. Her prayers and my father's fears were answered simultaneously.
For the first few weeks of Finn's life I'd pick my mum up to bring her to see the baby without speaking to my dad. She couldn't have been more delighted. Well, perhaps if her husband shared her profound glee, she could.
Mira's family were regular visitors and made a fuss of Finn, showering him with affection and gifts, as well as providing great support.
The situation with my father couldn't go on. He's approaching 90 and it was intolerable to think that Finn would not meet his grandfather. I don't know why he finally decided to get in touch, but détente was reached at his request.
He didn't apologise, but wanted us to put our differences aside. He said he had his reasons for his objections. I told him I didn't care what they were – they would make no sense to me. We were talking about an innocent baby, his grandchild, I told him. He agreed. A newborn baby was to be cherished. He wanted to meet him. We would not reach an understanding, simply a slightly chafing accommodation.
When Finn was three months old, I took him to see my father. When I put my son in his arms, even with his faltering eyesight and unsteady grasp, he was visibly moved to hold him, to gaze down on those big brown eyes and declare him handsome.
Now he regularly rings up to ask: "How's my beautiful grandson?" before telling me how alert and lovely he is, just like any proud grandad. It still surprises me, but I'm gratified and – more than anything – relieved. As an added bonus, he hasn't said anything offensively racist to me for months. I think of it as Babies 1, BNP 0.
He hasn't changed his politics, of course, but he has at least stopped his small-minded bigotry poisoning the bond with his own blood. Although our relationship will never be the same, it is at least cordial and Finn at last has a grandfather (Mira's father died some years ago).
Race was not an issue for Mira's family. Both her sisters are married to white Englishmen and have beautiful children. The family has had many happy mixed marriages since they came to England from east Africa in the 1970s.
It took a baby to shake my father from his rigid stance, and I suppose it is the same for many families. The thing you fear turns out to be nothing at all.
I still brace myself for an offensive outburst when we take Finn to see my parents. But he takes most of the attention, so the state of the modern world comes up less. Last time, my dad piped up: "It doesn't make sense. Our government has just given £4m to the starving Somalis …" I tensed, fearing the rest of the sentence but he said, "Yet Manchester City has just spent £35m on a footballer." Perspective is the last thing I expected from him.
Mostly, though, I am glad that he is proud of the baby we made, a child we couldn't love more, who will grow up to hear that his grandad has some good points. I can tell him he was a war hero who risked his life and gave part of his sanity, in my opinion, to protect this country from the evil force of nazism.
It still shocks and saddens me that my father, along with others of his generation and experience, embraces the racist ideology they fought against in the battle that defined their lives. Do they really wish they had been on the other side?
"I didn't fight for this," he used to say about our multicultural society. I could never satisfactorily explain it to him, but he did fight for this – for Britain to determine its own future and for its people to be free to live their lives and love whoever they loved. And he fought for Finn, and all his grandchildren, so they need never fear a knock at the door from a regime based on hate, division and brutality. For that I will always be grateful.
Names have been changed