Nell, Essex

When you lose a member of your family, you feel the edges of the hole they leave more sharply at Christmas.

The person I miss is my grandfather.

Throughout my childhood and into adulthood, my father worked away for all but eight weeks of a year.

My grandfather was my substitute.

On Christmas Day, I miss him with such a deep ache that his absence is guaranteed to bring quiet, hidden tears at some point.

After a secret sob, you’ll find me in the kitchen.

I remove his chipped, old teacup from the back of the cupboard, pour an inch or two of frozen peas into it and sit and watch the turkey glow golden through the oven glass.

As the peas defrost in my mouth, I reminisce about the day he chipped this, his favourite teacup, in the sink.

Instead of cursing, he turned to five-year-old me and said, “I know just what to do with this”.

He went to get some peas, handed me the cup, kissed my head, and carried on with the washing up.

I always find this a great metaphor for how life must continue to move on after he died.

But at Christmas, for a short time, I notice the missing chip and how sharp it feels.

Then my daughter comes in to steal the last of my peas, and I smile, and carry on.