When my parents told me, at the age of fifteen, that they were moving abroad…

When my parents told me, at the age of fifteen, that they were moving abroad for work for two years and that I would stay behind with my grandparents, I was furious. I did not want to leave my friends, and I was sure that living with two people in their seventies would be unbearably boring.

The first few weeks confirmed my fears. My grandparents went to bed at nine thirty, ate dinner at exactly six o'clock and did not understand why I needed to be online all the time. My grandfather asked me every evening what I had learned at school that day, and I usually answered with one word.

Things began to change during a power cut that lasted a whole weekend. With no internet and no television, there was nothing to do except talk. My grandmother got out an old box of photographs, and for the first time I heard the story of how she had left her village at seventeen to work in a textile factory in the city, sending most of her wages home to her family. My grandfather told me about building the house we were sitting in, brick by brick, over three summers.

After that weekend, I started to see them differently. I discovered that my grandfather, who I had always thought of as quiet and serious, had a wonderful sense of humour. He taught me to play chess, and by the end of the first year I could occasionally beat him, although I suspect he sometimes let me win. My grandmother taught me to cook, and I taught her to send video messages to my parents, which she now does far more often than I do.

The two years were not always easy. We argued about the music I played and the time I came home at weekends. But when my parents returned, I was surprised to find that I did not want to leave. I still visit my grandparents every Sunday, and my grandfather and I play chess over lunch. He still wins most of the games.