The problem with expat parents

When my mum answers my WhatsApp video call, she's on the beach. As we chat, I watch her take small sips from a wet can of lager and dodge the hairy men in budgie smugglers trying to get past her. Inevitably, I'll spend most of our conversation staring at her earlobe as she presses the phone to her head, trying to hear my various life updates over the shrieks of holidaymakers frolicking in the shallows. If the connection is good enough, I might be able to pick up on her excitement over the pink bikini she's just bought, or catch up on the gossip from the local dive shop, whose dramas are more gripping than a soap opera.

Together with my stepfather, who is a real action hero, my mother decided to pack up camp and go to Malta seven years ago. If you haven't visited Malta yet, it's a rustic little Mediterranean island between Sicily and the northern tip of Africa. Think orange beaches, umbrellas and an average daily temperature between 27 and 30 degrees. Simply lovely. The other big advantage of this archipelago is that one of the two official languages ​​is English, which means our inability to speak a second language is not a problem. The local waiters have no problem understanding “two pints and a plate of chips”.

There are around five million Brits living abroad, most of them in Spain, France and Italy (although any place with bars showing the Premier League seems attractive). Before my parents left the country themselves, I assumed that these hordes of expats were all childless pensioners, all red and casual in their orthopedic sandals and cotton polo shirts from John Lewis. I imagined they were mostly grannies and grandads, elderly bus pass holders looking to blow their generous pensions on a stay in the sun. How could people in their forties and fifties leave Britain when they had so much to leave behind? Their children, for example.

My two younger brothers and I are in that weird limbo between ex-teens and real, responsible adults. They're both still in college and have no idea how to boil an egg or fold a fitted sheet. I'm nearly 24 and have sort of learned how to cope as an adult, but when I have an argument with a friend (which is a lot) or a medical emergency (which is rare), the very first thing I do is call my mum and cry and ask her what to do. When I try to reach her in a crisis, I all too often accidentally dial her old UK number instead of her international one and end up wasting a minute or two listening to the atrocious ringtones rather than actually getting her good advice.

This summer I flew out to stay with her for a month. It was partly an excuse for a break to sunbathe, swim and eat calamari, but it also felt oddly like a return to my childhood home, even though I'd never lived there, or anywhere but the depths of provincial England. All of a sudden I was my teenage self again, trudging across the sweltering kitchen to lay my head on Mum's square shoulder and moan about something unimportant. I wondered how it was that my parents had flapped their wings and moved somewhere with warm weather and real coffee. I was the child in this scenario – shouldn't the person starting a new life elsewhere be me?

The problem with expat parents is ultimately that they live the lives their children dream of but can't make it happen, especially after Brexit ended any freedom of movement. My mum is one of my best friends but that doesn't stop me from wallowing in resentment when I find her drinking a cheap fruity cocktail on a Wednesday lunchtime and me trapped in the grey towers of rainy London like a knotted version of Rapunzel. When I returned to the UK last week, I was particularly daunted by the 1,200 miles that separate us both. I couldn't believe it: was the feeling just post-holiday blues? Or was it because I just don't want to book a flight every time I need a hug?