As a child, I spent my summers in the enchanting land of Transylvania, where the legends of Dracula, bats, and vampires captivated my classmates back in North London. While these mythical tales added an air of intrigue, the real magic for me lay in the bonds of family, particularly with my grandfather, who has now reached the remarkable age of 97.

Recently, I made the heartfelt decision to relocate to be closer to him, a choice driven by love and the need to support him in his twilight years. My adventures began when I was just seven years old. I would fly solo on British Airways unaccompanied minor program, making my way to Bucharest, Romanias vibrant capital. There, my grandfather would await my arrival with open arms, ready to embark on an eight-hour overnight train journey across the picturesque landscapes of Romania to Cluj, the unofficial capital of the Transylvania region.

During those cherished vacations, my days were filled with exhilarating escapades. We would spend countless hours at the local park, where I swung on the monkey bars until my hands blistered. I vividly recall the hikes we took up to the summit of Cetatuia hill, marveling at the breathtaking views of the city. My grandfather would point out historic sites, sharing stories that connected me to our familys heritage. On one particularly memorable summer day, we stumbled upon a patch of four-leaf clovers along the banks of the Some River, which we carefully picked and pressed into a notebook, a small treasure we would cherish forever.

My grandfathers life story is as vibrant as the landscapes around him. He dedicated decades of his career as a set designer for the national opera, navigating the complexities of his profession during the difficult years of communism in Romania. After his retirement in the late 1980s, he found a new passion in oil painting, focusing on abstract interpretations of the Romanian countryside and its rich folklore. His studio in downtown Cluj became a sacred creative sanctuary, where I would often join him, painting while playing with Rascal, our beloved black cat whom we rescued one summer.

Our adventures did not end with my childhood. Just last year, when he was 96, we shared a thrilling ride on Romanias last operational forestry steam train, which now serves as a tourist attraction weaving through the majestic Carpathian mountains. As we chugged along the scenic route, my grandfather reminisced about his youthful escapades, recounting how he would hitch rides on the back of logging trains to reach secluded fishing spots.

However, life took a sudden turn at the end of last year when my grandfather suffered a stroke that left him blind in one eye and unable to live independently. The moment I learned of his condition, I knew my role had shifted. Six weeks later, my boyfriend and I packed our belongings and moved across Europe to take care of him. This transition was made significantly more manageable due to my boyfriend's unwavering support and willingness to embark on this journey alongside me.

Now, my daily routine has transformed. Each afternoon, I walk the ten minutes from my flat, situated in an ex-communist block, to my grandfathers home, where we take short walks together. He is unable to manage long distances, so we often venture just to the end of the street and back. Some days, we make it into the grocery store, where he patiently waits on a window ledge while I gather his essentialsmilk, bread, and clementines. Once a month, I dutifully visit his doctors office to collect his prescriptions and refill them at the nearby pharmacy.

I often tell people that Im not my grandfathers caregiver, even though I am, a label that makes me uneasy. I struggle with this reality; I am no longer the child who requires protection but rather the adult who must provide it.

Our relationship has come full circle in many ways. A family friend recently shared her memory of my grandfather from her childhood, noting how he always took her seriously. That same respect and consideration were extended to me as a child. Any whimsical request I made was met with enthusiasm. Its easy to dismiss this as a grandfather's indulgence, but my grandfather truly understood the importance of entering a childs world, and I aspire to do the same for him now.

Recently, he asked me to find him a calendar, specifically one associated with the Orthodox Church. Instead of questioning what appointments he might want to note, I ventured to the citys cathedralthe same place my grandmother once took me to light candlesand purchased a pocket diary. These gestures have become our way of communicating love.

On his 97th birthday, I orchestrated a special outing to his studio, a place he hasnt been able to visit since his stroke. Carefully, I maneuvered the car to the back entrance, guiding it down a narrow gangway to the steps leading up to the studio. Twinkling lights adorned the stairwell, illuminating our ascent. Once inside, he settled into his rocking chair, and together we marveled at the stacks of canvases, rows of paintings, and boxes of vibrant oil colors that filled the room. We made it, I said, and he replied with a smile, It was an adventure.