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I raised him from four years old. I buried him at twenty. I'm sixty-eight. His mum couldn't cope. So I took him. I thought I was the lucky one. His name was Marcus. Tall, lanky lad with his granddad's eyes. Wrote rap music on his phone in his bedroom for hours. Wanted to be a music teacher. But he was struggling. And I knew. I told myself it was a phase. I told myself young men go quiet sometimes. I told myself anything that meant I didn't have to believe what I was actually seeing. I came back from Tesco on the Saturday morning. Shopping bags in both hands when I called up the stairs. He didn't answer. I didn't think anything of it. I'm sixty-eight. My hearing's not what it was. I went up to put his washing on his bed. His bedroom door was shut. I knocked. Nothing. I'm a small woman. I'm not strong enough to do CPR properly on a six-foot grandson. I tried. I tried for what felt like hours. The paramedic kept saying I'd done everything I could. She held my hand on the kitchen floor for an hour. I don't remember the wake. I don't remember Christmas that year. My son — Marcus's uncle — moved in for a month because I wasn't safe on my own. In the spring I was emptying his bedroom. I found his phone in his bedside drawer. The lyrics he'd been writing. 'I'm twenty and I'm tired. Nan loved me more than anyone but even her love wasn't enough to make me stay.' I held that phone for an hour. I'd loved him every day of his life from the moment he was four years old. And it wasn't enough for him to stay. A few months later I was in the doctor's surgery for my blood pressure. The girl two seats down was wearing a purple hoodie. Marcus loved purple — same as his Manchester United kit when he was small. I read the back of it. I started crying in the waiting room and I couldn't stop. The receptionist had to bring me water. I ordered it on the bus on the way home. Marcus had taught me how to use my phone for shopping the year before he died. I thought of him pressing buy. I wore it to the post office the next week. A young man behind me read it. He didn't say anything. But when I turned around to leave he was wiping his eyes. I took it off in the queue and I gave it to him. I said: 'I lost my grandson at twenty. I'd rather you have this than me.' He hugged me in the post office. He was crying. The whole queue had stopped. The lady behind the counter was crying too. I went home and I ordered three more. I'm sixty-eight years old. I can't bring Marcus back. I can't tell him my love was enough — even if it wasn't enough to make him stay. But I can be the old woman in the post office that a young man reads. I can be the nan at the bus stop that some other grandson sees and stops a moment. I wear it every day now. It's from a tiny brand I found called LIVE2LIVE. Front says 'You Are Enough.' Back says 'Dear person behind me, the world is a better place with you in it. Love, the person in front of you.' This is Marcus's now. His message. The one I would have given anything to have given him in time. Please. If you have a grandson who's gone quiet. Or a son. Or a nephew. Get him this however you can. And if you're young and you're tired and you don't think anyone's love is enough to make you stay — please. Hear me. I am sixty-eight. I have buried someone I raised from four years old. I am telling you. The world is better with you in it. You are enough. Exactly as you are. I would give the rest of my life for Marcus to have believed that. If you have a grandson, a son, a nephew who's gone quiet — get him this however you can.