I can’t remember whether it was my son or daughter who was first to bring home the original box of those square chocolate-coated mints, or what the occasion was, but it was one of those very special ''first’ presents – the first time the child had the freedom to go to the village shop and pick out the item of their choice.

Carefully counting out the coins from their sweaty little palm, sliding them across the counter in exchange for the package before hurrying home. Then hiding it under a jumper as they ran up the stairs to clumsily wrap it, before rushing downstairs again. Hopping up and down from one foot to the other, their little face shining with excitement and the sheer joy of giving.

And from that day on, after that first gift was received with much ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ and ‘you’re so thoughtful and kind’, that familiar dark green oblong box became part of every birthday, Christmas and Father’s Day.

Those thin mints becoming an integral part of our high days and celebrations, only deviating the year a special edition was released and the thin chocolate casing contained orange fondant instead of mint. And the memorable year when the box was opened, revealing many of the small green envelopes to be empty of their contents. ‘Quality control,’ my son confessed with a sheepish smile, chocolate smeared around his little lips.

At times the box was wrapped in ornate paper, other times hastily thrown into a plastic bag, and always accompanied by a card. I still have many of them, the early ones far too precious to discard. Made out of folded flimsy paper, featuring painstakingly drawn pictures of stick children holding hands with stick parents, a huge yellow ball hanging in the sky behind them. Back in the days when all you both needed to make the sun come out was their little hand in yours.

Of course, despite its predictability, the present always seemed to be a surprise. ’Oh, what can this be,’ he would say, pretend-shaking the box and turning it upside down, before opening it exclaiming, ‘oh you remembered! ‘My favourites’ as his eyes crinkled with delight.

He was always so generous with those soft sweets too, eating few himself as he happily shared them with me and those small, beaming children who loved the pepperminty green, unctuous taste of their own kindness.

For Easter this year we were on our own, those children having long since grown their wings and flown the nest, when, through the Ring video doorbell app, I watched the post-woman place a brown cardboard box on our welcome mat.

I carried it in and watched as he slowly opened the package. Small polystyrene peanuts of packaging falling onto the floor like confetti, revealing the familiar dark green liveried box, housing a huge chocolate egg wrapped in glossy green foil. The egg sitting on top of a full-sized box of After Eights, which looked like it had just been hatched.

With the shiny foil reflecting the light in his eyes, he started to laugh. “Do you know,” he said, a wry smile on his face,“I’ve never really liked After Eights.”

I started laughing too, as I thought of the countless boxes of those chocolate-wrapped mints he had been gifted over the years.

As the day grew older and the time zones aligned, bridging the gap between one side of the world and the other, and making that all-important telephone call possible, we gathered around the small screen of my phone. The dogs nudging their way into the conversation too, tails wagging at the sound of my daughter''s voice echoing down the long phone-line from Sydney.

With the blue Australian skies blinding us, a glimpse of the child she once was shone through my daughter’s beautiful adult face as she saw the egg sitting on the table. “Did you like your egg?” she asked.

“Just perfect,” he said with a smile, as he carefully removed a flat, square mint from its shiny wrapper and popped it into his mouth.

“What kind of an Easter would it be without my favourite chocolates?”