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 until restrictions would end, complained about the separation and promised ourselves we would never take a family visit for granted again.

Then the doors reopened. Grandparents hugged their grandchildren, families gathered around dining tables and life gradually returned to something resembling normality. There were reunions, photographs and stories about everything people had missed. For most, lockdown became something to look back on. For our British-Persian family, separated from family in Iran, the experience of watching life happen from a distance never ended.

And that’s what I find hardest. It’s not simply missing people, but missing time. The birthdays that can’t be repeated, the childhood milestones nobody gets to witness and the years that just quietly disappear while everyone hopes from time to time that the next visit might finally happen.

A missed birthday can be celebrated later. A childhood can’t. Every year that passes brings another collection of memories our family will never have the chance to make.

Every December, we celebrate Shab-e Yalda, the Persian festival marking the winter solstice. Traditionally, families gather on the longest night of the year to eat pomegranates, watermelon and nuts, share stories and read the poetry of Hafez. It is a celebration of togetherness and the return of longer days, which makes the absence of loved ones really noticeable.

Our preparations begin 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 examines the baklava before someone offers him a piece.

For him, having a British mum and Persian dad means twice the celebrations. Christmas, Nowruz 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.

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.

That is the difference between seeing someone and being with them. A video call allows you to witness a moment, but it doesn’t let you share the hours surrounding it.

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 sometimes think back to lockdown, when people spoke so openly about loneliness, separation and the damage caused by losing contact with loved ones. There was a shared understanding that families needed each other, and that photographs and phone calls weren’t enough. I wonder how many people still think about families for whom that separation remains an everyday reality.

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 laugh, eat too much and discover that the boy they’ve watched growing up through a screen has become  taller and more opinionated than they expected. I just hope we get that chance while there’s still time to make those memories together.

If lockdown taught us anything about the importance of family, why do we so easily forget those who are still living with separation? Have you experienced years apart from the people you love? I’d like to hear your story.

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