My current spouse/civil partner visa expired this summer, with my eligibility to apply for Indefinite Leave to Remain in the UK finally kicking in. So we knew roughly when the application was going to fall. But when we went to book our appointment, the only date free in the next 45 days was our anniversary.
Queuing up in Croydon, going through airport-style security and waiting for a bureaucrat to decide your entire future as a couple is not necessarily my idea of romance, but with no other options, needs must. So we made the trip down to London and managed to work in some fun things (like celebrating Sam’s mum’s 70th and snuggling our new nephew) so that the trip wasn’t truly just terror.
I’ve written before about just how long and hard the UK immigration process is. This was always going to be the last hurdle in finally seeing a future together where we weren’t subject to separation by outside forces beyond our control. For the past 8 years, almost every penny that I’ve saved has gone into an account earmarked for immigration purposes because when all is said and done I will have spent around £12 k for the privilege of getting to live with my husband (that figure also includes the extra “immigration health” surcharge that I had to pay despite paying taxes in the UK nearly my entire working life).
Indefinite Leave to Remain (ILR) was the Sword of Damocles hanging over every decision that we’ve ever made as a couple. I was thrilled when we finally found a house in an area that we loved that we could afford to buy, but I wouldn’t let myself get too happy about it because I didn’t want to get too attached to it in case my leave in the UK wasn’t approved. Every single idea for the future that we’ve chatted about has had an invisible “as long as….” tagged to it as a qualifier.
ILR isn’t the end of the road; I’ll still apply to naturalise as a citizen but this is a smaller process. The big hurdle for foreign families and partners present in the UK is ILR.
I lost countless hours of sleep scheming back up plans. As a Brit Sam was still eligible to move to the EU. And as an EU citizen you can live with your non-EU spouse in most countries other than the UK as a Brit. Would we have to throw our lives into upheaval and move to say, Ireland, where Sam could settle as an EU citizen? Or would we have to bite the bullet and apply for Sam to come to the US? (Resulting in Sam living the the UK with Harold, whilst I would have to be in the US for likely 18 months.) All our backup plans held their own elements of horror.
This is all coming from someone of relative privilege. I am white. I have a university education. I speak English as my native tongue. And most importantly to the UKVI, we could gather the necessary amount of money together. (Though it was really hard for us to do so.) The process was a nightmare for us, but it can be absolute hell for others.
Which brings me back to Croydon. The staff was all genuinely kind, and most people wanted to be able to print out that letter for you stating that your leave had been granted. If you’ve never sat in an immigration centre before, it has one of the most striking and particular atmospheres that you’ll ever feel. It’s a massive space full of families, individuals and lawyers all hoping that they ticked the right boxes, that they brought the right evidence with them. The air crackles with tension and nerves whilst children play games and laugh and read and run-around oblivious to the stress of the adults in the room. You’ll always be able to spy at least 5 different people with all their documents spread out on the floor and chairs around them, frantically double-checking everything.
On our anniversary, around the same time that I would have been about to put my dress on, surrounded by my bridesmaids and mom, laughing and drinking prosecco, our number was called up to desk 44. In quite the anti-climax, a demure man whispered that my leave had been granted and handed me a letter explaining my new residency card will arrive by the post, hopefully in the next week or so.
And that was it. All those years of stress, worry, and tears over in the blink of an eye.
The magnitude of the situation hasn’t quite sunk in yet, and Sam and I spent most of the rest of Monday just feeling like we were in a daze.
But the future is ours now. Solely and completely ours.
That is a beautiful thing.
