My partner is British. Before I ever considered moving to England, I visited at least a dozen times. Not weekend trips — real visits. I stayed with family. I walked the streets in every season. I sat in the pubs and the parks and the supermarket queues. I thought I understood what life here would look like. I was completely wrong.

It's the end of May here in the United Kingdom. The evenings are getting longer, that particular British gold light that stretches past 9pm like it's trying to convince you summer is real and permanent. And somewhere in the back of my head, I'm aware that back home, Memorial Day just passed. That somebody grilled something. That somebody drove somewhere. That people I used to know went about the whole ritual of it without me.