And in the United Kingdom, that was exactly the right time for it.

Windows down, the radio playing something old and forgotten. The smell of salt on her skin and chips in her hair. Her head heavy against the seatbelt as the last light of the day faded, and the first stars appeared over the rolling green hills.

“When is it actually summer , Dad?” Elara had asked once, watching rain streak the window in late May.

But now, with Mum’s suitcase open on the bed, the real answer unfolded.

One Tuesday, they set up the paddling pool in the garden. The moment it was full, the sky turned to slate. Instead of crying, Mum cheered. They put on their wellies and swam in the rain, laughing as fat, cold drops exploded on their noses. “This,” Mum declared, “is peak British summer.”