I wore my father’s suit to the citizenship ceremony

Dear Delyara, I became a British citizen today. My father wanted this more than I did. He spent years keeping every letter from the Home Office in labelled plastic folders and correcting me whenever I complained about the forms. He died before my application was approved. This morning, I wore his navy suit to the ceremony. The trousers were too wide and the sleeves stopped above my wrists, but the inside pocket still contained a bus ticket and one peppermint wrapped in paper. When the official asked us to stand, I placed my hand over that pocket. People around me recited the affirmation in different accents, some confident, some barely audible. I had imagined feeling triumphant. Instead, I kept seeing my father at the kitchen table practising the words “permanent residence” until he could pronounce them clearly enough for an appointment. After the ceremony, everyone took photographs with small flags. I stood alone near the fire exit because my mother could not travel and my friends were working. A woman I had never met asked whether I wanted her to take my picture. I handed her the phone. In the photograph, I am smiling in a suit belonging to a man who spent half his life proving we deserved to stay and did not live long enough to become what he had prepared me to be.