Ever since she’s been able to walk, talk and spurn, my youngest granddaughter has regarded me with a mix of antipathy, chagrin and disdain.

   It was sweet by comparison to hear “Grandpa!” as a stand-alone greeting coming from a squeally voice, instead of following a string of expletives out of a swerving monster truck on the I-5.

   The purpose for Carol and I traveling to Chicago in January was to meet and babysit for my side of the generational issue of grandchildren. The run-up to Carol’s meeting of Harper, 7, and Juno, 3 1/2, was upbeat. “She sounds nice,” Harper had told my daughter. This was to me anyway, in sharp contrast to this exchange with Juno on my previous visit at Thanksgiving:

Me: Did you have fun with Grandpa?

Juno: No.

Me: Are you sad Grandpa is leaving?

Juno: No.

Me: But you’re going to miss Grandpa, right?

Juno: No.