Someone put a lit-up gaggar on my head at the jaggo and honestly, I’ve never felt more at home.

Four days in London for one of our closest friends’ weddings. Maiyaan Thursday afternoon. Jaggo Thursday evening. Wedding ceremony Saturday morning. After party Saturday night. If you don’t know Punjabi weddings, that itinerary doesn’t convey the scale of it. The food, the noise, the colour, the dancing, the sheer commitment to celebration across every single event.

I was wearing phulkari made for me by my mother-in-law. Weeks of her work, draped over my shoulders. I wore it dancing.

We took the family. Our youngest birth son has grown up in this culture, knows the ceremonies, knows the people. He has kept kesh since he was five years old. At the wedding he wore a pag. Because this is his culture. It has been since he was small. He just got stuck in, as he always does, chatting with everyone, involved in everything.

At the maiyaan he was handed a corner of the cloth to hold above the groom’s head. It’s what the brothers do. So he was a brother.

Our youngest foster son spent most of the weekend with his eyes three sizes too big. The colours, the food, the noise, the absolute warmth. He ate a whole jalebi before he thought to ask what they were. At the jaggo he worked through four plates of starters because there was chilli paneer, followed by eight bowls of ice cream and a bottle and a half of full sugar Coke. A one-off, because that volume of sugar turns him into something feral. He danced it off though. The aunties cheered him on. So did the men. Nobody batted an eyelid. He loved every second.

Our eldest foster son found Southall a lot. The smells and sounds all layering over each other at once. That’s just him, and he knows it. The jaggo, though? Different story entirely. He danced until his legs genuinely stopped working. Loved every second of that too.

Different people. Different moments. All of them there.

Jatinder’s family have had me for years now. I wear the clothes his mother makes. My kids hold the cloth, eat the food, get pulled onto the dance floor by aunties they’ve known since they were small.

This is just our life. It’s a good one.