My grandfather, who I have always called Pa, is dying. He grew up working class in the north of England and went on to have a spectacular career, life and family.

Many of my friends have inherited tens of thousands of dollars when their grandparents have passed, often tied up in big suburban houses. This is part of the new phenomenon of intergenerational wealth. Rather than the “bank of mum and dad”, the “bank of grandma and grandpa” is how many young couples are now getting into housing. But many of the same friends seldom saw their grandparents or felt they couldn’t fully be themselves in front of them. And the spectacle of inheritance feels meaningless alongside real connection.

Instead of being far away in a separate house, Pa has always lived closely with family, part of the everyday fabric of our lives across generations.

There’s a kind of conspiratorial bond that can arise in grandparents and grandchildren who are close. A naughtiness that is difficult to share with a responsible parent. I have a strong memory of breaking into some kind of parade or festival with Pa when I was little. Not because we couldn’t afford the tickets but because neither of us could be bothered walking the length of the fence to the gate. It took more effort to covertly sneak in and run from the plain sight of any officials.

Pa is now nearly 97. A few years ago we sat in a garden of flowers he had planted and he read aloud his life story. I typed up sections and listened to his stories of Geordie poverty and migrant liberation. My mum’s cousin finished the book and got it bound. Every family member has a copy. He wrote a dedication to my grandmother at the front, whom he calls “my wings and my copilot”.

Before the age of 21, and to get himself out of wartime famine, Pa learned how to polish wood. Last year he sat on his walker in our living room and helped my partner and me sand back and restore a 1950s cabinet I found on the side of the road. I printed out a photo of him cutting a pink ribbon off the cabinet when it was finished. This is framed beside his bed in his retirement home, which is close by, so I visit regularly.

This year Pa cupped my partner’s face and gave his blessings for our engagement. He tells us regularly of how much he loved my grandmother and what makes up enduring love.

Pa is a cheeky and playful person. He taught me how to joke, negotiate, heckle. I hope to pass these traits on.

He has hand-stitched tapestries for each of our walls and couches. We will hang his artwork in our nursery when we have a child.

A friend a few years ago said to me: “We always talk about intergenerational trauma – why don’t we speak about intergenerational joy?” She was reflecting on how she came from a line of wild women who may not have much money but could dominate any dancefloor.

Now, as I prepare to hold his soft fingers for perhaps the last time, I can’t help thinking how grateful I feel for what he has passed on. Pa has always lived with and beside us. He has shared decades of knowledge, made us keepsakes and been there for our milestones. His warmth is his immeasurable wealth. And in the light of his dying smiles, I feel like the wealthiest girl in the world.