When it was time to leave, he hugged me.

It was a proper bear hug.

I was a bit surprised, because I’d only met him a few hours ago and he hadn’t really said much to me. I barely knew his name. Neither of us spoke the same language. Also, I’m not really a hugger. Also, he didn’t really strike me as a hugger either. And they were about to miss their train (the overground, but still).

As the hug continued for longer than what would be considered normal even for people who had known each other deeply for many years, I realised that actually he was trying to communicate everything with that hug. Everything that we didn’t have any other shared language for. It was a hug that said thank you.

We had arrived in London to meet up with our Ukrainian refugee’s husband, who is now finally old enough to leave Ukraine, but equally, relatively understandably, doesn’t want to leave their home in Ukraine for more than a few weeks at a time. (Which makes me very edgy – their city in the east is now being used for military training, which means the risk is a lot higher than it used to be. You sleep in your clothes many storeys up and hope for the best when the sirens sound).

I’ve made it clear that we will always help whenever and however we can, but I’m also conscious that all freedom is valued, including that of making their own decisions about everything. Plus, I have discovered there is literally no point even attempting to ask a Ukrainian to do anything they don’t want to do, it will never happen. All you can do is get locked in banks with them (a story for another time).

But the least we could do is buy a man returning to a warzone the best steak that the UK has to offer, which is what we did (Hawksmoor, if you’re interested). And gently hint.

“I took a photo and showed him (to help him understand),” she said, showing me. It was a photo of coins I’d laid out on a piece of paper on our dining room table a long time ago, with basic explanations next to them. 1p (100 = £1). 50p (2 = £1) and so on. This had been done following a discussion in Lidl with a furrowed brow, while she was holding out 1p and £1. “Why do they both say 1?”

I was touched she’d taken a photo and kept it all this time to show her husband. It felt forever ago. It’s been three years since we went to the airport and collected a total stranger fleeing a warzone in the midst of drunk happy people flying to mainland Europe for long-postponed post-covid stag dos. But it feels like about thirty.

“How can you trust her in your house, she’s a total stranger,” one of our (long departed) staff said a few weeks later when we were taking them to Portugal for a conference and leaving our keys in her hands. (They had also complained the baggage allowance we’d bought wasn’t enough for them. It was the same size suitcase our refugee had arrived with).

We got back to a series of small DIY jobs done and a sparkling clean home.

Several of their relatives have died in missiles or on the front line. The mental disruption is fierce. I banned myself from watching all news channels on our perfectly normal sized living room TV (“It’s like the cinema”) as soon as she moved in and immediately put on Lord of the Rings (a big favourite in Ukraine apparently – Russia gets compared to Mordor a lot, and you can guess who Putin is).

“I’m checking the news,” she’d say at night, going upstairs. In my privilege it took me a long time to realise that she wasn’t doomscrolling websites or watching TV headlines but calling her family.

The truth is, she helped me more than I helped her. The sense of perspective was a constant reminder without her having to say or do anything. I realised how much I was bothered by small things that in the grand scheme of things were so unimportant I later wondered why they even crossed my mind at all. Now she’s moved to London to look after her older sister, we still talk all the time.

She was always there when I needed a third hand to hold something. And I wasn’t used to being helped, so it initially took me by surprise (as a rule, Joe and I have our own tasks at home and there’s no time so we rarely get involved in the other person’s). I realised how much I wasn’t used to having a parent figure to help me. Especially one that gave without expecting anything in return.

When they were finally able to meet as a family, the whole family together, they sent me a photo. A Christmas tree in the background. A first. Celebrating Christmas in December with a tree like the West.

I commissioned one of our Createry customers to create an oil painting from it as a late Christmas present. (Being from Hong Kong, the Christmas tree we had at the Createry was new to her too and she immediately brought her friend to see it. “A real live tree! Inside!”). She wrote a note on the back of the frame after signing the front, about how much it meant to her that I had her told her her story.

The only husband-related communication we’d had previously was a book he’d sent over as a present. A large hardback picture book of their hometown, pre-Putin, to show how proud they were of it. It remains the most emotional gift I’ve ever received. And as I’ve promised, one day I’ll take it back there and use it as a reference point to help rebuild. I’m forever hoping that day is soon.