A/N – And this is it! It's finished! I can't believe I finished it (I'm not very good at finishing things). Now that this is done, don't forget that the chronological order is now on my profile. 'One Day' – the very first one I wrote! – comes between 'Brand New Day' and this one, just in case you wanted to refresh yourself with that at least.

It all comes down to you…

He's an old man now, your father. In truth, you are sometimes amazed that he made it to now, that he lived this long when he spent his life battling people who very much wanted to kill him.

But he did it. He lived and he lived and now he is retired and he has a life, a real one. One that you can finally be a part of. Once upon a time, you hated him for the job that took him away. You swore you would never forgive him. How easily things change. You understand now – it was never personal. It was never you that was the problem.

Graham was angry at you for a long time, said that you had betrayed him and the promise that two frightened children made to one another; the one to always, always be there for one another. But then Graham was not the one who had Dad turn up on his doorstep fifteen years ago, clutching a bottle of wine and begging – yes, begging – to be allowed in. Graham was not the one who pulled him inside and sat him down and had to ask what had happened.

Graham was not the one who had to watch him cry.

He'd mentioned Ruth before, casually, in passing, since you had begun your reconciliation seven years before. You knew who she was. You never knew what she was, to him. He was so…not-Dad that you couldn't even be angry for keeping her a secret. Instead you sat down next to him and you let him sob into your shoulder, because what else could you do? Jamie made you both a cup of tea, because he didn't know what else to do either. You've never asked him what he thinks about that first time he ever met his father-in-law. He's never mentioned it. Neither has Dad. Maybe it's better that way.

You pull up in front of Dad's house. You're there for dinner, you and the kids. It's late July and the heat of the day is finally subsiding. Dad is in the front garden, Alfie at his heels, and he is watering the plants. He used to complain about gardening but you know he enjoys it really. It's quite similar to what he used to do really, this slow and careful and constant tending of fragile lives.

Arthur is first out of the car, into the garden before you've even opened your door. Alfie barks joyfully, his favourite playmate returned to him once more, and he abandons his owner to leap at your son. You wince – there goes his clean shorts, marked already with earthy paw prints. Nick, your eldest, rolls his eyes and opens his own door. He's practically a man now, your rapidly growing fourteen year old, and he likes to pretend he is above the exuberant energy of his nine year old brother. You know him better than that.

You watch him greet his grandfather as you free Molly from her car seat. Dad's face lights up. You were pregnant with Nicholas that night, the night that changed everything. Your Dad loves all his grandchildren but Nick is the one that pulled him through his grief, on a wave of first words and first steps and days out and babysitting nights in and everything else that a grandparent was supposed to do. Nick is his joy, the first one that he had a real chance to get right. Nick used to tell you that Granddad was his very best friend and that he always would be, and you think the same is probably true for your father. It would be easy to be jealous of their closeness but you cannot find the strength to begrudge it. Instead, you are just grateful.

Dad takes Molly from your arms as he leans in to kiss your cheek in greeting, and your baby girl sighs in contentment, resting her head against his shoulder now. She is three now, a most beloved accident, and all the men in her life worship her. She just has to give the slightest sign she is distressed and one of them, from Arthur all the way up to her grandfathers, will be there in an instant.

"How are you, Dad?" you ask, ignoring the yelps of excitement from the dog and Arthur's giggles. You don't want to know what the pair of them are doing with the abandoned hosepipe.

"Fine," Dad smiles, "Better now that you are here. Good day?"

"Alright. That producer from Dublin is still being a pain in the you-know-what."

"I'm sure you'll win him over."

"I'm thinking more along the lines of beating him into submission."

He laughs, a deep throaty chuckle, and turns towards the house.

"Come on. I thought we could barbecue kebabs. Make the most of the summer whilst it still feels like summer."

At the mention of food, Arthur abandons the dog and runs to take Dad's hand.

"Can I help with the barbecue, Granddad, can I? I'll be really careful."

"Of course you can, Prince."

Dad has called Arthur that since he was born. It started off as a joke, a nod to the origins of the name and a gentle mocking of Jamie's obsession with the king and his knights, but as Arthur had grown it had become more and more apt. Your middle child is sweet, so gentle and kind, and Dad adores him for it. It is only in recent years, watching them together, that you have realised Arthur is by far the most similar to his grandfather of all the members of your family. They even look alike – they have the same hazel eyes, and Arthur's curly strawberry blonde hair is just how you remember Dad's used to be.

You gather in the back garden and you're content to watch as Dad, Nick and Arthur fire up the barbecue. The kebabs have been taken from the fridge, already carefully prepared, and it is your job to ensure that Alfie does not decide he would rather like a taste. You eye the pup as he edges around the table, sniffing the air. The spaniel is only nine months old, a replacement for Scarlett who died five years ago. The little dog had lived to an impressive seventeen years old, seemingly refusing to leave your father. She had been his sole constant companion through so many years and he had been devastated when she died. It was only last Christmas that you finally managed to persuade him that he might like another dog, for the company. He'd been adamant that he did not, until you dragged him to the shelter and he was introduced to a litter of abandoned spaniel puppies. Alfie had done the rest.

"Don't even think it," you tell the dog, "You've had your dinner already."

Sensing defeat, Alfie skulks away and plants himself at Dad's feet. He knows he is more likely to get a tit-bit from his soft hearted master. True to form, it is not long before Dad has 'dropped' a chunk of lamb from one of the skewers. Alfie looks at you as though he has won. You sigh and roll your eyes, laughing when Molly copies you. She will not suffer fools, your girl.

After dinner, you move inside. It's time for a cup of tea, despite the lingering warmth. You make it, one for you, one for Dad, one for Nick. Dad and the kids retreat to the lounge, where you hear the TV click on and the theme tune for 'Doctor Who' begin. Dad has every episode recorded; it's something that he shares with both his grandsons. They've all seen every episode at least seven times but they never tire of it. It amazes you even now, the patience that your father is capable of. You never thought it was one of his strengths. He's certainly only learned it since you were a child.

It's one of the tenth doctor episodes, the agreed upon favourite doctor of all three. Arthur is already enthralled, sprawled on the carpet next to the dog. Nick sits beside them, leaning back on his hands.

"Did you hear Granddad?" he's saying, "They're saying there might be a special one off to celebrate the sixtieth anniversary. That means a new episode!"

"About time," Dad says. He's sitting in his favourite chair, one eye on the screen and the other on Nick. Molly sits on his lap, curled into him, and he reaches out for his tea with his spare hand.

"Thank you. You don't mind us watching this, do you?"

"No," you say, "You know I don't."

Your eyes stray, as they always do, to the framed photograph that sits atop the piano in the corner. It is a photograph of Ruth. You don't know where he got it, but it is a nice photo. She was quite beautiful but not in an obvious way, not in the sort of way that had once attracted your father's attention. You sometimes wonder still what it was about her that changed him so.

He was so utterly in love with her that in the early days you used to be afraid of what he might do, if left alone too long with his thoughts and his empty house.

Then, slowly, he got over her death. Never over her, but over her death, and he began to change into the man that you know today. Just after Molly was born, you finally plucked up the courage to ask him about it.

"She reminded me of who I was," he'd said, "And so I promised myself that the least I could do for her was to try and remember that."

That was it, all he had to say on the matter and you have not asked him since. The boys are not so shy; both of them, repeatedly, have asked about 'the pretty lady on the piano.' Dad gives them both the same answer, every time, "That's Ruth. I loved her very much. She loved me, and I know that if she was still here, she would have loved you as much as I do."

"So she is our Granny?" Arthur had asked, so innocent, "Like our real Granny's boyfriend is Granddad John. She would have been Granny Ruth?"

You pretended that you did not see the tears in your father's eyes after Arthur said that.

You must be staring at the photograph, because you feel a gentle hand on your arm and look around to find that Dad is watching you. His eyes are sad and you think he must have noticed where you were looking.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," you murmur, putting your hand over his, "Just thinking that we have a lot to thank her for, don't you think?"

His eyes flicker to the piano, just for a moment and then to the boys, who are on the edge of their seats despite knowing full well what is coming next in the episode. He smiles, a small but sure thing. You're glad he has learned how to smile again.

"I never forget it, Catherine. Not even for a moment."

A/N 2 – Just a quick note to thank everyone who has read this series and especially to the lovely, lovely people who have reviewed. You guys are the ones that have made this worth sticking with. I hope I have achieved my aims with this series, which were to make sense of Harry and Ruth in my own head, and to make something good out of the mess that was this relationship and the way it ended.