My grandad was my favourite person in the world. He was the kindest and most humble person I’d known.

I miss him every single day. He died in March 2020 just as the first lockdowns came into effect.

He’d been ill for quite some time. Pulmonary fibrosis. He was in pain, and when he was in pain he was a man of few words.

He had a good and long life, with lots of love. It was his time to go, it wasn’t nice seeing him in pain. But it doesn’t make it easier. I struggle every day. I still cry about how much I miss him and would love to have him tell me another story.

I don’t have regrets or guilt. I spent a lot of time with him, and I have lovely memories. I just miss him. A lot.

I don’t think I’ve grieved my loss. I don’t know where to start.