No Instructions Given Sasha Received a Letter as a Photo on His Phone—Blue Ink on Squared Paper, Signed ‘Grandad Nick.’ Underneath, a Brief Note from Mum: ‘He Writes Like This Now. You Don’t Have to Reply If You Don’t Want.’ Sasha Zoomed In to Read the Lines: ‘Hi, Sasha. I’m Writing from the Kitchen. Met a New Friend: My Glucose Meter. It Scolds Me in the Morning if I Eat Too Much Bread. The Doctor Says I Should Go on More Walks, but Where Should I Walk When My Friends Are All in the Cemetery, and You’re Off in London. So, I Walk Down Memory Lane Instead. Today I Remembered How Back in ’79 We Used to Unload Freight at the Station. The Pay Was Pennies, but You Could Always Sneak a Few Crates of Apples. Wooden Boxes with Metal Handles. Sour Green Apples, but Still a Treat. We’d Eat Them Right There on the Embankment, Perched on Cement Sacks. Hands Grey from Dust. Not Exactly Clean, but Delicious All the Same. Just Reminiscing, That’s All—Not Here to Lecture. You’ve Got Your Own Life, I’ve Got My Check-Ups. If You Fancy, Write About the Weather and Your Exams. Your Grandad, Nick.’ Sasha Smiled at the ‘Glucose Meter’ and ‘Check-Ups.’ The Messenger Note Read: ‘Sent an Hour Ago.’ He’d Phoned Mum, but She Didn’t Pick Up. So, It’s Really ‘Like This Now.’ He Looked Through the Chat. The Last Messages from Grandad Were Voice Notes from a Year Ago: Short Birthday Wishes, and One ‘How’s Uni Going?’ Sasha Had Replied with an Emoji and Disappeared. Now, He Looked at the Photo of the Squared Paper for a Long Time, Then He Started to Type. ‘Hi Grandad. Weather Here: Three Degrees and Wet. Exams Start Soon. Apples Go for £2.50 a Kilo Now—Not Great for Apples Here. Sasha.’ He Thought About It, Erased ‘Sasha,’ Wrote Simply ‘Grandson Sasha.’ Then Hit Send. A Few Days Later, Mum Forwarded a New Photo. ‘Hi Sasha. Got Your Letter. Read It Three Times. Decided to Reply Properly. The Weather Here’s About the Same as Yours, Just Not as Many Trendy Puddles. Snow in the Morning, Water by Lunch, Sheet Ice by Evening. I’ve Slipped a Couple Times—Seems It’s Not My Time Yet. Since We’re on Apples—Let Me Tell You About My First Real Job. I Was 20, Working in the Factory Fitting Lift Parts. Always Noisy, Something Clanking, Air Full of Dust. My Overalls Were Grey—Could Never Get Them Clean. Fingers Always Full of Splinters, Nails Black with Oil. But I Was Proud—Had an Entry Pass, Came in through the Main Gate, Felt Like a Proper Grown-Up. Best Bit Wasn’t the Pay, It Was Lunch. In the Canteen, Big Bowls of Soup, and If You Got There Early You’d Get Extra Bread. We’d Sit Together Eating in Silence. Not Because We Had Nothing to Say, Just Because We Were Worn Out. The Spoon Felt Heavier Than a Wrench. You’re Probably Sitting There With Your Laptop, Thinking This is Ancient History. Sometimes I Wonder—Was I Happy, Or Just Too Busy to Notice. Aside from Studying, Are You Working? Or Do People Your Age Just Make Up Startups Now? Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Read This While Waiting in Line for a Kebab. People Argued, Advertisements Blared from the Counter. He Found Himself Re-Reading the Bit About Soup and Heavy Bowls. He Wrote Back Right There, Leaning on the Counter. ‘Hi Grandad, I Work as a Delivery Driver. Mostly Takeaways, Sometimes Paperwork. No Entry Pass, Just an App That’s Always Freezing. But I Sometimes Eat at Work Too—Not Stealing, Just Not Enough Time to Get Home. I Buy the Cheapest, Eat in Doorways or In a Mate’s Car. Also in Silence. About Being Happy—Not Sure. Usually Too Busy to Notice. But Canteen Soup Sounds Good. Grandson Sasha.’ He Thought About Adding Something About Startups, but Decided to Leave It Be—Grandad Could Fill in the Gaps Himself. The Next Letter Was Unexpectedly Short. ‘Hi Sasha. Being a Delivery Driver Is No Joke. Now I Picture You Not As a Kid Behind a Screen, But As a Bloke in Trainers, Always on the Move. Since You Mentioned Work, I’ll Tell You About When I Picked Up Extra Shifts on a Building Site Between Factory Rotas—When Money Was Tight. Carrying Bricks Up to the Fifth Floor on Wooden Stairs. Dust up Your Nose, in Your Eyes, in Your Ears. By Evening I’d Take Off My Boots and Sand Would Fall Out. Your Gran Used to Tell Me Off for Ruining the Linoleum. Funny Thing Is, I Don’t Remember The Exhaustion As Much As One Detail. There Was a Lad on Site Everyone Called ‘Smithy.’ He’d Arrive Before Everyone Else and Sit on an Upside-Down Bucket Peeling Potatoes He’d Brought in from Home. At Lunch, He’d Chuck them in a Saucer Over the Hob and the Smell of Boiled Spuds Would Fill the Whole Floor. We’d Eat with Our Hands, Sprinkle a Bit of Salt from a Paper Packet. Tasted Like Nothing Better. Now I’m Sitting in My Kitchen Looking at a Bag of Shop Potatoes, and It’s Not the Same. Maybe It’s the Spuds. Maybe It’s Just Age. What Do You Eat When You’re Tired? Not Takeaways—Proper Food. Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Didn’t Reply Right Away. He Thought About ‘Proper Food.’ He Thought Back to Last Winter—After a 12-Hour Shift, He’d Bought Frozen Ravioli from a 24-Hour Shop, Boiled Them in the Dorm Pot, The Same One Someone Else Used for Sausages. The Ravioli Fell Apart, the Water Went Cloudy, But He Ate the Lot, Standing by the Window—No Table. After Two Days, He Wrote Back. ‘Hi Grandad, When I’m Worn Out, Usually Eggs. Two or Three, Sometimes with a Bit of Sausage. Pan’s Seen Better Days, But It Fries. No Smithy in Our Halls, Just a Flatmate Who Always Burns Things and Swears. You Write a Lot About Food. Were You Hungry Back Then, Or Are You Now? Grandson Sasha.’ He Immediately Regretted That Last Question—Felt Rude—But Sent It Anyway. The Reply Came Quicker Than Usual. ‘Sasha, Good Question About Hunger. Back Then I Was Young and Always Hungry. Not Just For Soup or Potatoes—For a Motorbike, a Decent Pair of Shoes, My Own Room So I Didn’t Have to Listen to My Dad Coughing All Night. Wanted Respect—To Walk Into a Shop Without Counting Change. To Have Girls Notice Me, Not Pass Me By. Now I Eat Fine—the Doctor Tells Me Off Actually. I Write About Food Because It’s Something You Can Describe and Remember. Taste Is Easier Than Explaining Shame. Since You Asked, I’ll Tell You a Story—But No Life Lessons, I Promise. I Was 23, Already Dating the Woman Who’d Become Your Gran, but We Were Rocky. The Factory Announced They Were Sending a Team Up North for Good Money, Enough to Buy a Car in Two Years. I Was All In—I Pictured Myself Coming Home with a Brand-New Escort, Driving Her Round Town. But There Was a Catch—She Told Me She Wouldn’t Go. Sick Mum, Job, Friends Here, Couldn’t Handle the Cold and Darkness Up North. I Told Her She Was Holding Me Back. Said If She Loved Me, She’d Understand. I Was Ruder, but You Get the Idea. So I Went On My Own. After Six Months, the Letters Stopped. Two Years Later, I Came Back with Savings and a Car. She’d Married Someone Else. For Ages I Told Everyone She’d Betrayed Me—That I’d Done it All for Her. Truth Is, I Chose Money and Machines Over a Person. And Didn’t Admit It to Myself for Years. That Was My Appetite Back Then. You Asked What I Felt—At the Time I Felt Proud. Then for a Long Time, I Pretended I Felt Nothing. If You Don’t Want to Reply, That’s Fine. I Know You’ve More Important Things Than Old Men’s Stories. Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Read It Over and Over. The Word ‘Shame’ Hooked Him Like a Fish. He Tried Typing ‘Do You Regret It?’ and Deleted It. Then ‘What If You’d Stayed?’ and Deleted That Too. In the End, He Sent: ‘Hi Grandad, Thanks for Telling Me That. I Don’t Know What to Say. The Way We Talk About Gran, It’s Like She Was Always Just Gran, Like There Were No Other Options. I Don’t Blame You. I Recently Chose Work Over Someone Too. Had a Girlfriend Around the Time I Started as a Courier—Started Getting Good Shifts, Did Overtime. She Said We Barely Saw Each Other, I Was Always on My Phone, Snapping at Her. I Said Life Would Get Easier, Just Needed to Stick It Out. Eventually She’d Had Enough, Left. I Said It Was Her Problem. I Was Ruder, But You Get the Picture. Now, When I Come Back to the Dorm at 11pm and Fry Eggs on My Own, I Sometimes Wonder if I Chose Deliveries Over Someone. And Also Pretend It Was the Right Thing. Maybe It’s in the Family. Sasha.’ The Next Letter from Grandad Was on Lined Paper, Not Squared—Mum Explained by Voice Note He’d Run Out of His Usual Pad. ‘Sasha, That’s a Good Line—About It Being in the Family. In Our Lot, Everything’s Blamed on Blood. If They Drink—It’s Because Their Grandad Did. If They Shout—It’s Because Gran Was Strict. Truth Is, Each Time You Still Choose. It’s Just Easier to Pretend It’s Inherited Than Admit You’re Scared. When I Came Back from Up North, I Thought Everything Was New—Car, Room in a Hostel, Money in My Pocket. But Every Night I’d Sit on the Bed, Not Knowing What to Do with Myself. Friends Had Moved Away, The Factory Boss Changed, Only Dust and an Old Radio Waiting at Home. Once I Went and Stood Outside the House of Your Not-Quite-Gran. Watched the Windows—Light in One, Dark in Another. Waited Until I Was Frozen. Then She Came Out with a Pram and a Bloke Beside Her, Hand on Her Arm, Laughing About Something. I Hid Behind a Tree. Watched Until They Went Round the Corner. Probably the First Time I Realised No One Betrayed Me. I Picked My Path, She Hers. But It Took Me Ten Years to Admit That. You Wrote You Picked Work Over a Partner. Maybe It Was Actually Choosing Yourself. Maybe Right Now, Getting Out of Debt is More Important Than Going to the Cinema. Not Good or Bad—Just a Fact. The Worst is How Rarely We Say Plainly, “This is More Important to Me Right Now Than You.” Instead, We Wrap It in Fancy Words and People End Up Hurt. I’m Telling You This Not Because I Want You to Win Her Back. Honestly, I Don’t Know If You Should. Just—Maybe Someday You’ll Stand Under a Window and Realise You Could Have Been More Honest. Your Old Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Sat in the Dorm Corridor, Phone Warm in His Palm. Outside, Cars Sloshed Through Puddles. Someone Smoked on the Stairs. In the Next Room, Music Thudded Through the Wall. He Thought for a Long Time About What to Say. He Remembered Standing Under His Ex’s Window When She Stopped Picking Up. Watching Her Curtains, the Light in Her Flat; Thinking Maybe She’d Come to the Window. She Didn’t. He Typed: ‘Hi Grandad, I’ve Stood Under a Window Too. Hid When She Came Out With Some Guy—He Had a Rucksack, She Had a Shopping Bag. They Laughed. I Felt Wiped from Her Life. But Now Reading Your Words I Wonder if I Walked Out Myself. You Said It Took You Ten Years to Realise—Hope I Get There Quicker. I’m Not Going to Chase Her. I’ll Just Try to Stop Pretending I Don’t Care. Grandson Sasha.’ The Next Letter Changed Topic. ‘Sasha, You Once Asked About Money. Didn’t Answer Because I Didn’t Know Where to Start. I’ll Try Now. In Our Family, Money’s Like the Weather—It’s Mentioned Only When Things Get Bad or Strangely Good. Your Dad Once Asked Me What I Earned. I’d Just Had a Good Week with Extra Shifts—Said The Total. He Goggled, “Wow, You’re Rich!” I Laughed – “Not Really.” Couple Years Later, I Lost My Job—Half the Wages. Your Dad Asked Me Again How Much I Made. I Told Him. “Why So Little,” He Asked, “Are You Not Working Hard Enough?” I Snapped at Him—Told Him He Knew Nothing, Was Ungrateful. Really, He Was Just Trying to Make Sense of the Numbers. Years Later, I Realised That’s When I Taught Him Not to Ask Me About Money. He Grew Up Never Asking. Just Quietly Got Weekend Jobs, Fixed Things for People. And I Kept Expecting He’d Guess How Tough It Was by Himself. I Don’t Want to Make That Mistake With You. So I’ll Say It Straight. My Pension’s Not Huge, but There’s Enough for Food and Pills. Not for a Car Anymore, but I Don’t Need One. Now I Save Up for New Teeth—the Old Set Can’t Keep Up. How About You? Getting By? Not That I’m About to Send You Cash and Socks, Just Want to Know You’re Not Skipping Meals or Sleeping on the Floor. If It’s Awkward to Answer, You Can Just Say ‘Alright.’ I’ll Understand. Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Felt a Tightness in His Chest. He Remembered Asking Dad about Wages, Only to Be Fobbed Off with Jokes or a Cross ‘You’ll Learn One Day.’ He’d Grown Up Thinking Money Was something Embarrassing. He Typed: ‘Hi Grandad, I’m Not Hungry and I Don’t Sleep on the Floor. I’ve Got a Bed—Even a Mattress (Not Fancy, but Does the Job). I Pay My Own Rent, Made That Deal with Dad. Sometimes It’s Late, but I’ve Not Been Chucked Out Yet. Food’s Covered if I Don’t Buy Stupid Stuff. If Money’s Tight, I Just Grab More Shifts—Turn Into a Zombie Afterwards, But That’s My Choice. Wish It Was Easier to Ask You the Same Back, Like: “Grandad, Are You Alright?” But You’ve Already Answered. Honestly, It’d Be Simpler If You Just Wrote “I’m Fine” Without Explaining. But I Get That Grown-Ups Never Really Say Much. Thanks for Telling Me About Money. Sasha.’ He Fiddled with the Phone, Then Sent a Second Message: ‘If You Ever Want to Buy Something and Don’t Have Enough, Let Me Know. I Can’t Promise I Can Help But I’d Rather Know.’ Then Sent It Before He Could Change His Mind. Grandad’s Reply Was the Most Shaky—Letters Dancing Across the Page. ‘Sasha, Read Your Message About “If You Need.” At First, I Wanted to Say I Don’t Need Anything. That I’m Fine, Just Old, Only Need My Pills. Then I Wanted to Joke—That If I Really Needed Something, I’d Ask for a New Motorbike. But Then I Thought—All My Life I’ve Pretended to Be a Strong Man Who Can Do It All Alone. Ended Up As an Old Bloke Who’s Scared to Ask His Grandson for Anything. So I’ll Say This: If I Ever Really Need Something I Can’t Afford, I’ll Try Not to Pretend It’s Unimportant. For Now, I’ve Got Tea, Bread, Pills, and Your Letters. That’s Not Sentimental, Just Listing What I’ve Got. You Know, I Used to Think We Were Completely Different—You with Your Apps, Me With My Radio. But Now I See We’ve Got a Lot in Common. We Both Hate Asking for Help. We Both Pretend We Don’t Care When, Really, We Do. Since We’re Being Honest, Let Me Tell You Something No One Talks About in Our Family. You May Not Like It. When Your Dad Was Born, I Wasn’t Ready. New Job, We’d Just Got a Shared Room in a Hostel, and I Thought Things Were Looking Up. Then: Screaming Baby, Nappies, Sleepless Nights. I’d Come Home After Night Shifts and He’d Still Be Screaming. I’d Lose My Temper. One Time, I Threw the Bottle Hard Against the Wall and It Smashed. Milk on the Floor. Gran Cried, Baby Screamed, I Just Stood There Wanting to Leave and Never Come Back. I Didn’t Leave. But For Years I Pretended That Was Just a Bad Day. Truth Was, I Was Pretty Close To Running. And If I Had, You Wouldn’t Be Reading These Letters. Not Sure Why You Need to Hear This—Maybe So You Know I’m Not a Hero. I’m Just an Ordinary Man Who Sometimes Wanted to Walk Out. If You Want to Stop Writing, I’ll Understand. Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Read, Oscillating Between Hot and Cold Inside. The Image of Grandad Had Always Been a Warm Blanket, the Smell of Oranges at Christmas—Now It Was a Tired Guy in a Rented Room, Screaming Kid, Milk on the Floor. He Remembered That Last Summer, When He Worked at Kids’ Camp, He’d Yelled at a Boy Who Was Forever Whining. Grabbed Him Harder Than He Should. That Night, Sasha Lay Awake, Thinking He’d Make a Terrible Dad. He Looked a Long Time at the Blank Reply Box. His Fingers Typed ‘You’re Not a Monster.’ Deleted. ‘I Still Love You.’ Deleted—Couldn’t Say It Yet. In the End, He Sent: ‘Hi Grandad, I Won’t Stop Writing. I Don’t Know How You’re Supposed to Respond to That in Our Family. We Either Say Nothing or Joke. Last Summer I Worked at a Camp. There Was a Kid Who Cried All the Time. One Day I Lost It and Yelled So Much It Scared Me. Spent That Night Thinking I Was a Bad Person and Shouldn’t Have Kids. What You Wrote Doesn’t Make Me Think Less of You—It Just Makes You Real. Don’t Know If I Could Ever Be That Honest with My Own Kid Someday, but Maybe I Could at Least Try Not to Pretend I’m Always Right. Thanks for Not Leaving Back Then. Sasha.’ He Sent It—For the First Time Waiting for A Reply Like Something That Mattered, Not Just a Formality. Two Days Later, Mum Texted Instead of a Photo: ‘He’s Learned Voice Messages—But Asked Me to Write It for You.’ A New Photo Appeared of Lined Paper. ‘Sasha, I Read Your Letter and Thought—You’re Already Braver Than I Was At Your Age. At Least You Admit When You’re Scared. Back Then, I Pretended I Was Unshakable, and Ended Up Breaking Furniture. I Don’t Know If You’ll Be a Good Dad. Neither Do You. You Only Find Out as You Go. But the Fact You Even Wonder Says A Lot. You Said I Seem ‘Real’ to You Now. That’s the Best Compliment I’ve Had. Usually People Call Me ‘Stubborn,’ ‘Difficult,’ ‘Headstrong.’ No One’s Called Me ‘Real’ in Years. Since We’re At That Point, I Wanted to Ask—But Felt Awkward. If My Stories Get Too Much, Tell Me. I Can Write Less or Only On Holidays. I Don’t Want My Past to Weigh You Down. And If You Ever Want to Visit—For No Reason At All—I’ll Be Home. I’ve Got a Spare Stool and a Clean Mug Here. And Yes, I’ve Checked—It’s Clean. Your Grandad Nick.’ Sasha Smiled at the Bit about the Mug. He Pictured the Kitchen—Glucose Meter on the Table, Spuds by the Radiator, The Spare Stool. He Snapped a Photo of His Shared Student Kitchen: Piled-Up Dishes, the ‘Scary’ Frying Pan, A Carton of Eggs, A Kettle, Two Mugs—One with a Chip, A Jar of Forks on the Windowsill. He Sent the Photo With This: ‘Hi Grandad, Here’s My Kitchen. Got Two Stools, Enough Mugs Too. If You Ever Want to Visit, I’ll Be Home—Or Nearly Home. You Haven’t Overstayed Your Welcome. Sometimes I Don’t Know What To Say, But That Doesn’t Mean I’m Not Reading. If You Like, Tell Me Something Not About Work or Food—Something You’ve Never Told Anyone. Not Because It’s Shameful, Just Because There Was No One To Tell. S.’ He Sent It and Realised He’d Just Asked an Adult in His Family a Question He’d Never Asked Before. He Set the Phone Down, Face Down—So He Wouldn’t Miss a New Message. The Eggs Went Cold, but He Ate Them All the Same, Slowly, As if Sharing Them with Someone. They Never Wrote ‘Love’ Outright in Any Message. But There Was Something Between the Lines—For Now, That Was Enough for Both of Them.

Without Instructions

Alex received a message in his phonejust a photo of a lined piece of paper. Blue ink, tidy handwriting, Your granddad, Colin signed at the bottom. Alongside, a short note from Mum: He does this now. Reply if you wantbut you dont have to.

Alex scrolled in, squinting at the lines.

Hello, Alex.

Im sitting in my kitchen. Ive got a new friend nowa glucose monitor. Starts beeping every morning if I eat too much bread. Doctor says I should get out for walks, but who am I supposed to walk with? All my lot are at the cemetery, and youre off in Manchester. So I go for walks down memory lane instead.

Today, for instance, I remembered how, back in 79, we unloaded rail wagons at the station. They paid peanuts, but there was always a chance to sneak a box or two of apples. Wooden crates with metal staples at the edges. Tangy, green, but it was still a treat. Wed eat them right there on the embankment, sitting on sacks of cementhands dusty, fingernails black, grit in your teeth, but somehow it made the apples taste even sweeter.

I suppose Im telling you this for no reason at all. Dont worry, Ive no intention of lecturing you about life. Youve got yours, Ive got my blood tests.

If you fancy, drop me a line. Let me know what the weathers doing up there, and how those exams are coming.

Your granddad, Colin.

Alex smiled at the glucose monitor bit, the blood tests. The messenger read: Sent an hour ago. Hed tried ringing Mum, but she hadnt picked up. It really was how it is now.

Scrolling up the chat, Alex saw the last message from Granddadwell over a year ago: a quick birthday voice note and, once, Hows uni? Hed just replied with an emoji and disappeared.

Now, he stared at the photo a long while, then opened reply.

Hi Granddad. The weathers three degrees and drizzly. Exams soon. Apples are £2.50 a kilo these daysbit of a state, to be honest.

Alex.

He paused, deleted Alex, replaced it with a simple, Your grandson, Alex, and hit send.

A few days on, Mum forwarded a new photo.

Hi Alex,

Got your letter. Read it three times over. Decided to reply properly. Weather heres about the same, just without your fancy city puddles. Bit of snow in the morning, floods by lunch, then it all freezes at night. Nearly slipped over twiceapparently my times not up yet.

Since you brought up apples, Ill tell you about my first real job. I was twenty, started out in a workshop making lift parts. Sounded like a war zone in there, spinning machinery, dust everywhere. Grey overalls you could never get clean. Splinters in your fingers, grease under the nails. But I had an ID badge, and walking through the staff entrance felt grown up.

Best bit wasnt the money, though. Lunch was the highlightheavy ceramics of beetroot soup in the canteen. Get there early enough, youd bag an extra slice of bread. Wed all sit together, not chatting muchnot from lack of topics, but because we were shattered. The spoon always felt heavier than a spanner.

Bet youre reading this, sat at your laptop, wondering why Im rambling on about the Stone Age. But I do sometimes wonderback then, was I happy, or just too busy to notice?

What do you get up to, aside from exams? Working? Or is it all start-ups these days?

Colin.

Alex read it in the queue for a kebab wrap, surrounded by bickering students and blaring adverts from the till. He realised hed reread the bit about soup and heavy bowls.

He typed on the spot, leaning on the counter:

Hi Granddad,

I do some courier work. Deliver food, sometimes documents. No fancy IDjust an app thats always crashing. Still, I sometimes eat on the job, not nicking it, just not making it home in time. Whatevers cheap, in some stairwell, or in a mates car. Quietly.

Whether Im happy? No idea. No time to think about it, really.

But soup in a canteen sounds all right.

Your grandson, Alex.

He thought about mentioning start-ups, but left itlet Granddad fill in the blanks.

Next note arrived with little warning.

Alex, hello.

Courier works not nothing. I picture you nowsneakers, hurrying places, not just a lad on his laptop.

Since you told me about your work, heres mine. Did building site labour between shifts at the workshop, when cash was tight. We lugged bricks up five flights on rickety wooden stairs. Dust everywhere, in your nose, ears, eyes. Most evenings Id kick off my work boots and pour half the sites sand out of them. Your Nan used to kick off about the mud wrecking her lino.

Strangest thing is, I dont remember the tiredness so much as this: There was a bloke everyone called Big Dave. Always early, sitting on an upturned bucket, peeling potatoes with his penknife. Popped them in an old pot from home. At lunch, hed boil them up, and the whole site would smell of potatoes. Wed eat straight from the pot, salt from a twist of newspaper, and nothing tasted better.

Right now, my shop-bought potatoes just dont hold up. Maybe its my age, not the veg.

What do you eat when youre done innot takeaway, I mean, proper food?

Granddad Colin.

Alex didnt answer straightaway. He wondered about proper food. Remembered last winter, after a twelve-hour shift, grabbing a bag of frozen pies from the 24-hour shop and boiling them in the digs kitchena battered pan, stinking of burnt sausages. The pies fell apart, water cloudy, but he wolfed them down by the window, plate balanced on his knees.

Two days later, he replied:

Hi Granddad,

When Im shattered, usually do eggstwo or three, sometimes with a bit of sausage. Our frying pans ancient, but it works. No Big Dave here, but the guy across the hall is always burning toast and swearing.

You write a lot about food. Was it that you were hungry then, or now?

Your grandson, Alex.

He sent it, then instantly regretted that last questiondid it sound blunt? Too late now.

Granddad replied quicker than usual.

Alex.

Good question, that. Back then, I was always hungry. Not just for foodwanted a bike, new boots, my own room so I didnt have to hear Dad cough all night. Wanted to be respected, to walk into a shop and not count coppers, to get a second glance from girls.

Nowadays, I eat finedoctor says, sometimes too well. I write a lot about food, probably because its something solid, something you can grasp and remember. A bowl of soup is easier to describe than shame.

Since you asked, Ill tell you a storyno moral at the end, I promise.

I was twenty-three, seeing your future nan, but it was all a bit shaky. Then a big job came up at the plantcrew going up north. Serious money, enough to save for a motor if you stuck it out a year or two. I jumped at it, already imagining bringing home a new Ford, giving her lifts round town.

But there was a catch. Your nan refused: her mum was sick, she had her job, friends, life down here. Said she couldnt handle the cold and darkness up north. I told her she was holding me back. If she really loved me, she should support me. Said it cruder than that, but never mind.

In the end, I went. Six months later we stopped writing. Two years on, I came home, money in my pocket, second-hand motor in the driveway. Shed married someone else.

I told everyone shed betrayed me. That Id done everything for her and shed and all that. But the truth is, I chose cash and steel over a person. And spent years pretending it was the only possible choice.

Thats how greedy I was.

You asked what I felt. At the time? Important, righteous. Later? I spent decades pretending I felt nothing at all.

Dont feel you have to replyold mens stories and all that.

Colin.

Alex read that line about shame over and over, like a snagging hook. He found himself searching the gaps between the lines for an excuse Granddad never offered.

He started a message: Do you regret it? Deleted it. Typed, What if youd stayed? Deleted that as well. In the end, he sent something else entirely.

Hi Granddad,

Thanks for telling me all that. Not sure what to say. In the family, everyone talks about Nan like shes always just been, well, Nan, no alternatives.

Im not judging. Only, recently I picked work over someone too. Had a girlfriend; just started as a courier, getting the good shifts. Was hardly ever around, always on the phone, always knackered and snapped at her. She complained we never saw each other, said she couldnt wait forever. I told her it was her issue. Said it rougher than that, but you get the point.

Now, when Im back in the digs at eleven, frying my sad little eggs, I sometimes wonder if I did the samechose cash and jobs over a person. And still like to pretend I made the right call.

Maybe its just in our blood.

Alex.

Granddads next photo wasnt a grid sheet, but lined paper. Mum explained via voice note: Hes used up his old pad.

Alex,

You got it right about in the blood. In this country were always keen to blame the familydrinks, because his dad did; shouts, because his gran was strict. But honestly, its a new choice every time. Admitting that is scary, easier to claim inheritance.

When I got back from up north, I thoughtnew life now. Car, digs, bit of cash. But evenings, Id just sit on the bed, arms dangling, not knowing where to put myself. Friends had gone, the boss at work had been swapped out, and at home was only dust and the old wireless.

Once, I drove out to the house where your not-quite-nan lived. Parked across the road, watching the windowsone lit, one dark. I stood there til I was freezing. Saw her come out with a pram, bloke by her side, holding her arm. They were laughing. I hid behind a tree like a daft kid, watched until they turned the corner.

Thats when it dawned on me, no oned betrayed me. Id picked my path, shed picked hers. Took me a decade to admit it.

You say you chose work over your girl. But maybe you didnt pick the job, maybe you picked yourself. Sometimes thats just what needs doinggetting yourself out of debt is more important than the cinema. Its not right or wrong, only how things are.

You know whats a real shame? Were terrible at just saying, Right now, this matters more to me than you do. So we go round and round, say the right words, then everyone still ends up hurt.

Im not writing to tell you to win her backmight not even be the answer. Just, maybe one day youll stand outside someones window and realise you couldve been more honest.

Your daft old granddad, Colin.

Alex sat on the windowsill in the grotty corridor of the halls, phone warming his palm. Cars swished by outside, someone chain-smoked on the steps, music thudding through the walls.

He sat with the memory of standing outside his exs window after shed blocked his calls, watching the curtains, the light. Hoping shed appear, pull back the netting, see him. She never did.

He wrote:

Hi Granddad.

I did stand outside a window. Hid, too, when I saw her leave with another bloke. He had a rucksack, she was carrying shopping. They were laughing. I thought Id been erased from her life. Reading your letter, maybe I stepped out myself.

You said it took a decade to see it. I hope its quicker for me.

Not tracking her down. Maybe Ill just stop pretending I dont care.

Your grandson, Alex.

The next letter changed tack.

Alex,

You asked about money once. I didnt answer, didnt know where to start. Let me try now.

In our lot, money was like the weatheryoud only talk about it when it was either disastrous or unexpectedly good. When your Dad was little, once he asked how much I earned. Id just taken extra shifts, so I told him the figure, quite proud. His eyes poppedYoure rich! he said. I laughed, told him not to be daft.

A couple of years on, got made redundantpay halved. He asked again. I told him. Why so little? he said. Have you stopped working hard? I shouted at him, said he didnt understand, that he was ungrateful. He was only trying to make sense of numbers.

But I realised much later Id taught him never to ask me about money again. He never did, just took extra jobs, fixed up other peoples stuff for cash. Meanwhile, I expected hed just realise how hard things were.

I dont want to do that with you. So Ill be straight. Pensions not huge but covers pills and food. Not saving for a car now, nor would I want to. Only saving for new teeth, if Im honestthese old ones cant chew much.

How about you? Managing all right? Im not offering sock money before you panicjust want to know youre not going hungry, not sleeping on the floor.

If youd rather just say fine, Ill get it.

Colin.

Alex felt something clench inside. Childhood memoriesasking Dad about his job, always getting a joke or testy youll find out someday. It left him thinking money was something shameful, never to ask about.

He typed:

Hi Granddad,

Im not hungry and Ive got a bedeven a mattress, not brilliant but it works. I pay my own rent at the halls, Dad and I agreed on that. Sometimes Im late, but havent been kicked out yet.

Got enough for food if I keep things simple. When things get tight, I pull an extra shiftwandering zombie after, but its my choice.

Its weird you ask, when I feel awkward asking you the samelike Are you managing? But youve told me already.

Suppose Id find it easier if you just said all fine and left it at that. But I get itwere used to grown-ups keeping quiet about everything.

Thanks for answering about money.

Alex.

He turned the phone over in his hand, then added a second message:

If ever you want something and your pension doesnt stretch, promise youll mention it. Dont know if I can help, but at least Ill know.

He sent it before he chickened out.

Granddads reply was the messiest yetletters wobbling, the lines veering off.

Alex.

Read your if you cant afford it message. First I wanted to saydont be silly, I need nothing, Im an old man, just give me my tablets. Next, almost made a joke about asking for a motorbike!

But truth is, Ive spent my whole life pretending I was tough enough to cope alone. Ends up, Im an old boy scared to ask even a grandson for help, even as a joke.

So, heres my try at honesty: If ever I need something I absolutely cant manage, Ill try not to pretend I dont. But right now, tea, bread, tablets and your letters are enough. And Im not being sentimentalits just my shopping list.

You know, I always thought we were worlds apart, you and your apps, me and my radio. But reading your letters, I realise were alikewe hate asking for help, and we like to act like we dont care, when we really do.

Since were being truthful, heres something else we never discuss in families. Dont know what youll make of it.

When your dad was born, I wasnt ready. Got a new job, wed just moved into shared digsI thought things were finally looking up. Then came you dadcrying, nappies, sleepless nights. Id come home from night shifts, shattered, and still hed cry. I lost it oncechucked a bottle at the wall, milk everywhere. Your Nan cried, your dad bawled. I just stood there, wishing I could walk out and never come back.

I didnt. But for years I pretended it was just a moment, just being overtired. The real truth? That was the time I came closest to running away. And if I had, you wouldnt be reading these letters now.

I dont know why you need to know this. Maybe just so you know your granddads not a saintnot a role model. Just a normal bloke, sometimes wanting to walk out and disappear.

If this puts you off messaging, I get it.

Colin.

Alex read, feeling icy and hot in turns. All his life, Granddad had been like a warm blanket and oranges at Christmasnow he saw a knackered bloke in a shared room, baby screaming, milk on the floor.

He remembered last summerworking at a holiday campwhen hed snapped at a crying lad, grabbed his shoulder too hard, terrified the boy and himself. Hed lain awake afterwards, thinking hed be a hopeless father.

He stared at the empty reply box. Typed: Youre not a monster. Deleted it. Wrote: I still love you. Deleted that in embarrassment.

Finally, he wrote:

Hi Granddad,

I wont stop writing. Im not sure anyone ever knows what to say when it comes to this stuff. In our family, no one talks about crying or wanting to leave. We either change the subject or joke.

Last summer, I snapped at a lad at the camp who wouldnt stop cryingshouted and scared him, then hated myself for it. Spent half the night worrying Ill be a lousy dad.

What you shared doesnt change my view of you. If anything, it makes you more real.

Dont know if Ill ever manage to be that honest with any kid I have. But maybe I can stop pretending to always be right.

Thank you for not leaving back then.

Alex.

He pressed send and, for the first time, realised he wasnt waiting for politenesshe wanted the reply.

Two days later, a new message appeared. Mum didnt send a photo this time but typed it out: Hes mastered voice notes but asked for help this once. Dont be alarmed.

On screen, a fresh photo of lined paper.

Alex.

I read your letter and thoughtyoure already braver than I was at your age. At least you admit youre scared. I always acted tough, then broke things behind closed doors.

I dont know if youll be a good father. No one does until they have a go. But just asking yourself puts you ahead.

You wrote I seem real to youmight be the nicest thing Ive heard. Most people just call me stubborn, ornery, difficult. Nobodys said real in a long time.

Since were using big words, heres one from me: If I ever bore you with my stories, tell me. Ill write less, or wait until Christmas. Id hate to drown you in my memories.

One more thing: If you ever want to pop round, no reason needed, Ill be in. Ive a spare stool in the kitchen, and a clean mug. Reallychecked it myself.

Your granddad, Colin.

Alex smiled at the bit about mugs, picturing the kitchen, creaky stool, glucose monitor on the table, bag of spuds by the radiator.

He snapped a photo of his own shared kitchensink piled with plates, battered frying pan, box of eggs, kettle, two mugs (one chipped), tin of forks on the sill.

He sent Granddad the pic, along with:

Hi Granddad,

Heres my kitchen. Two stools, more than enough mugs. If ever you fancy a visit, Ill be in too. Well, nearly home.

You havent annoyed me. Sometimes Im stuck for a reply but that doesnt mean Im not reading.

Tell me somethingdoesnt have to be work or food. Maybe something youve never told anyone, not because its shameful, but just because there wasnt anyone.

Alex.

He hit send, and realised hed just asked a grown-up a question hed never dared before.

Phone down, screen dimmed. The pan with eggs hissed softly. Laughter came through the wall. Alex flipped the eggs, turned off the hob, and sat on his stool, picturing a day when Granddad might be there beside him, mug in hand, telling a story out loud for once.

He didnt know if Granddad would come or what came next. But knowing he had someone he could send a photo of his grungy kitchen and ask how are you? made his chest pinch, in a good way.

He opened the chat again, just to look at all the messageslined, squared, his stubby Alex. He laid his phone screen-down, just in case a new notification came.

The eggs were cold, but he ate them anyway, slowly, as if sharing with someone else.

The word love never showed up explicitly in their messages. But between the lines, it was already there. For now, that was enough.

Life sometimes teaches us that honesty, with ourselves and others, is harder than anything. But when we put aside pride and pretense, we find connection in the most ordinary of placeseven over cold eggs and quiet conversations.