Britain came out of lockdown. Our family is still losing years we can never get back.

During lockdown, Britain learned what it felt like to have family reduced to faces on a screen. Grandparents missed birthdays, children grew taller between video calls and Christmas dinners became awkward gatherings conducted over Zoom. We counted the weeks and promised ourselves we would never take a family visit for granted again.

Then restrictions eased and reunions became possible. For our British-Persian family, with relatives in Iran, watching life happen from a distance remains part of everyday life. The birthdays pass, Cyrus grows up and everyone hopes the next visit might finally happen.

The longest night feels longer when family is missing

Every December, we celebrate Shab-e Yalda, the Persian winter solstice festival. Families gather to eat pomegranates, watermelon and nuts, share stories and read poetry, including Hafez. A celebration built around being together makes the empty places rather obvious.

In earlier years, our preparations began in Newcastle, usually with an ambitious shopping expedition involving watermelon, pomegranates and a visit to Honey Patisserie in the West End of Newcastle upon Tyne. Cyrus would examine the baklava before someone offered him a piece.

For him, having a British mum and Persian dad means twice the celebrations. Christmas, Nowruz and our family’s goldfish saga and Yalda all have their attractions when food and presents are involved. He loves the traditions without worrying too much about the complicated geography of his family. I wish the adults could experience them quite so simply.

The childhood his grandma is missing

Cyrus is ten now. He’s no longer the little boy whose every movement needed supervision, although his ability to leave a trail of belongings through the house remains impressive. He has his own interests and jokes. He’s growing into someone his grandparents, aunts and uncles should be able to get to know properly.

Instead, they see fragments of his life through a phone or a tablet. A birthday photograph, a school story, perhaps a few minutes of conversation before somebody loses the connection. They can see how much he’s grown, but they can’t experience the everyday moments that make up a relationship.

I think about the ordinary things most families barely notice. A grandparent collecting a child from school, an aunt taking him shopping or an uncle teaching him something that his parents would rather he didn’t know. These aren’t grand occasions, they’re the memories children carry into adulthood, often without realising their importance until much later. And those are the opportunities that are passing us by.

One year, we celebrated Yalda with Persian friends, abandoning the dining table in favour of blankets spread across the living room floor. There were bowls everywhere, rice on the carpet and enough food to make the following day’s cleaning a bit of a chore. It was noisy, comfortable and exactly the sort of evening I wanted Cyrus to remember.

Our friends understood the customs, the food and Farsi expressions. Cyrus practised Shab-e Yalda mobarak, occasionally mangling the pronunciation, while H explained traditions from his childhood. We laughed, ate far too much and enjoyed being surrounded by people who understood this part of our lives.

But there were people missing, as there always are. We called H’s family and passed the phone around so everyone could exchange greetings. Cyrus showed his grandma what we were eating, and for a while, they were part of the celebration. Then the call ended, and we continued our evening without them.

There is no catching up on lost years

H and I became parents later in life, which makes us more conscious of time. We know that grandparents are getting older while Cyrus grows up. We know that a ten-year-old can’t be six again, however much everyone might wish to revisit those earlier years.

I think back to lockdown, when separation was something people discussed openly. We understood why a photograph or a phone call might leave someone feeling worse as well as better. That understanding still matters to families whose relatives remain far away.

We are fortunate to have Persian friends, our routines and a home filled with both British and Iranian traditions. I want Cyrus to enjoy Yalda, learn Farsi, discover Hafez and appreciate the family history that belongs to him. I don’t want every celebration overshadowed by sadness. But I can’t pretend that keeping traditions alive is the same as having the people who passed them down sitting beside us.

One day, I hope Cyrus will celebrate Yalda with his grandma, aunts and uncles around the same table again. They’ll discover that the boy they’ve watched through a screen has become taller and more opinionated than they expected. I just hope we get that chance while there’s still time.

How do you keep a child close to relatives they rarely get to see? If your family lives across borders, I’d like to hear what helps, and what you still miss.

Occasional stories, experiments, discoveries and questions from Saffron & Cyrus.