On our way from Reading to London, the whole family is sitting around a train table. Maya is counting us. “Four!” she declares triumphantly. I try to confuse her by counting everyone more than once. One time I count eight of us, the other six, but she remains convinced there are exactly four of us: “You are counting everyone more than once!” Then I change my tack and count Dorian out: “there are three of us here, see?” “But,” Maya squints at me belligerently, “you did not count Dorian—your son!” And there is much rejoicing around the table.