It doesn't take long for me to notice them - their pattering feet up the pathway, their gleeful voices rising as they approach the front door, intent on seeing their Grandmother.
Gradually lifting myself out the armchair, I shuffle out of the living room and into the corridor. Through the glass I see the head of my daughter, looking down at her beautiful, young children. One day that had been me.
Grinning, I open the door. There's only a second of hesitation before they're bounding on top of me, their stubby, little arms hugging me tightly. This is the moment I live for.
"Grandma! We've come to see you!" claims the oldest one, Charlie. His blonde curls are almost spiraling down to his shoulders now and he looks at me with a menacing grin - the same grin my daughter wore when she was up to no good. Now, she's wearing her most familiar one. Stepping forward, I hug her, the warmth of her body enclosed in mine. Another moment I live for.
"How are you doing, Mum?" She asks, slipping off her shoes.
"I’m good,” I reply, just out of habit. Following the boys into the living room, I watch as they dump their toy cars into a pile on the rug. Lily gives me a sympathetic look but I wave it off.
The rest of the day goes how it always does. The boys talk me through their car game; we drink endless cups of tea and eat infinite amounts of biscuits. But then it always comes down to the moment when we're back to standing in the corridor.
Except this time they're leaving.
And I have to force a smile as I hug the two little ones goodbye; squeezing Lily tight and telling her 'I'll see you soon!'. But will I? Then I'm shutting the door and I'm alone again. Like I've always been.
I guess that's one fear that never vanished.