Do you know how much heartache comes with dating someone on a visa or from a different culture?

I doubt many people would choose it if they knew what they were getting into.

It doesn’t matter how solid the relationship feels—people will still plant tiny seeds of doubt in your mind. Little things. Offhand comments. Over time, those seeds grow. They live rent-free in the garden of insecurities you’ve nurtured, while those people carry on, completely unaware of the trauma they’ve caused.

The guy I’m dating? He’s great. Honestly. I can’t fault him.
Actually, that’s a lie—I can. Easily.
He has zero time management skills, and I swear he must’ve lived under a rock during his first two years in England. Contactless payment? No clue. Car parks? Don’t get me started. He genuinely thought parking on double yellows was fine—because, according to him, the odds of getting towed are slim and the fines still work out cheaper than paying for parking. I mean… he’s not wrong, but also, what?

Still, his good points outweighs these minor irritations. Which is lucky, because nine months in and the time management thing is still a problem. I’ve had puppies learn faster—no joke.

Here’s the thing, at any moment, he could just fuck off back to Pakistan and vanish. And weirdly, that’s not my biggest fear. If he wants to leave, fine. He’s a free man. I wouldn’t want to be with someone who isn’t in it for the right reasons anyway.

But then come the whispers: “He’s using you for a visa.”
Brilliant. Good luck with that. Have you seen the hoops he’d need to jump through to qualify as my dependant? Five years married. Minimum income of £29,000. Living with me and my boys—one of whom is autistic—for 1,825 days. Totally worth it, right?

Let’s not kid ourselves. I’m not a catch. Not young. Not slim. Not pretty. More than a bit unhinged, mid-divorce, and parenting solo. So please, remind me—why would he be using me. There are women in the UK offering ‘marriages of convenience’ for £10,000 upfront and a few grand every few months to keep things sweet. That’s not me. So please, stop saying he’s using me.

I don’t know what the future holds. We say we have plans—and they sound amazing—but honestly, who knows what’s coming?
The White Paper under review says people like him—already here, paying thousands, working, paying taxes—will have to wait ten years before even applying for indefinite leave to remain.
Ten. Years. Who in their right mind signs up for that?

He’s looking into his options. I haven’t been brave enough to ask if one of them is just… leaving. Booking a flight home or somewhere else. The UK isn’t the only country with decent wages. I wouldn’t blame him if he did go. The pull of family alone would be enough for me.

It still blows my mind, the difference between our cultures.
My family live in the same country and I speak to them maybe once or twice a month.
His? On the other side of the world—and he talks to his Ami every other day. Tell me we don’t have a broken society when we can’t even love our families right.

We’re from different worlds.
I was raised in a small family where my grandparents were hands-on, and my parents were… emotionally unavailable. Still are. I’ve had more cold calls from India than calls from my parents in the last three years. As a child, I walked myself to school, made my own packed lunches, got my first job at 13, and was taught independence was the goal. Yeah, I’ve probably got some attachment issues—but that’s another rant.

He grew up in a loving, loud, very Asian household. His Ami did everything for him and his siblings. He wasn’t allowed to work, and as the son, barely expected to lift a finger. Apparently, in Pakistan, you’re not really an adult until you’re 50. Okay, 25—but still. By 25, I’d been living independently for ten years, had a husband, a degree, a career, a kid, and a mortgage. He was still figuring out car parks.

I don’t know if it’s him or his culture, but this man is so laid-back I sometimes check for a pulse. I’m spiralling, freaking out, and he’s just chilling like it’s a Tuesday. Either he’s the most zen person I’ve met or just a bit simple and I haven’t noticed because he’s too damn fine.

Back to cultural differences—before I start daydreaming.
Marriage. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt—and trauma—for sticking it out with the wrong guy for over a decade. Why? Because I couldn’t admit I was wrong, and the fear of social stigma was real.

He, on the other hand? Never married. And as far as his family knows, he’s a good Muslim man who’s never “laid” with a woman. Oh, the delusion.

A few years ago, his family tried matchmaking. He said no to all the women lined up. While I respect that, part of me wishes he’d just said yes to the first one. That I’d never met him. That I hadn’t gotten tangled in this shitshow. Not sure if I’m joking. That’s the hard truth. Because I do love this man. Deeply. I see a brilliant future with him. He makes my heart happy and my soul feel at ease. But I can’t shake the feeling I’ll never be good enough—for him or his family.

I’m not a bad person. In fact, I’d argue I’m pretty damn decent. I care about people, help where I can, and would probably give a kidney to an animal if it would improve its life.

But I’m not what his family pictured for him—and that hurts more than I admit.

He thinks, with time, they’ll come around. That they’ll accept me.
That’s fine. But at what cost? How much hurt am I causing his Ami? How much am I breaking her heart by not fitting the future she imagined for her baby boy?

And listen—I get it. I’m a mum of two boys. I love them fiercely. I’d literally kill for them. I probably shouldn’t write that down, but hey—I stand by it.

So how do I get this woman—whom I’ve never met, never spoken to, and won’t until we’re married—to see I love her son? That I would, with every fibre of my being, love, honour, and respect him—and her family?

To her, I’m a cunning woman. It’s all a calculated move.
She thinks I saw a handsome, naïve young man who’s made something of himself and thought: ‘bingo—husband number two’.

Let me clear that up. Yes, in Pakistani terms, he’s done well for himself. But when we met, I already had a mortgage in my name and a higher income. I didn’t need him. Didn’t need his money. Didn’t need a second go at playing housewife.

I didn’t plan any of this. I didn’t plan to fall for him. His personality. His character. And, fine—maybe a little bit of his face. There was no agenda. No scheme. Just this very real, slightly chaotic, questionable love.

Right now, I’m struggling to make sense of this text, let alone find a conclusion. The last time I spoke to him, he was finishing work and driving with a poor signal. That was about an hour ago—not last week. We talk several times a day, message constantly, and practically stalk each other on Life360. Okay, maybe that’s just me doing the stalking.

I ended the call because his signal was driving me crazy, and he’d just dropped a bomb: his mum and brother are apparently trying to find him a potential wife in England. Excuse me—what the actual fuck? His mum knows about me. She’s not my biggest fan (if you hadn’t guessed), but she definitely knows I’m in the picture. His brother? No clue. So, why doesn’t he just tell him? Because—Asian family drama. Apparently, it’s easier to get married and then yell “Surprise!” over a WhatsApp video call than deal with the chaos that will follow. I’m a catch remember?

Now I’m just waiting for him to call back. He said he’d call in 20 minutes. We’re at 45minutes now. As I said—we are still working on the time management. Wish me luck.

….