My children can’t see their father because I don’t earn enough money

Flicking my phone screen into selfie mode, my two sons and I squeezed together to share the little rectangle in the corner of the screen. 

‘It’s ever so dark your end, we can hardly see you.’ I bellowed through the phone to my husband – but I don’t think he could hear me against the sound of Big Ben bonging on the TV and the cheers and celebrations that filled the room.

Then, as the final stroke of midnight rang out, we all yelled: ‘Happy New Year!’ 

We held out one hand each, two halves of a heart joining 5,000 miles apart, and when the boys shouted, ‘I love you Daddy, I miss you’, my heart panged with guilt.

I yearned for us to be able to hug and hold each other like normal ‘together’ families, but I was in the UK and my husband, Manoel, was in Brazil. We were separated, though not by choice.

We met 17 years ago when I was 30, single, and teaching English as a foreign language in Brazil. We conversed and I was super impressed to have met Manoel aka ‘Mestre Mangue’ – a master of the Brazilian martial art known as capoeira – and became fast friends.

Six years later, in 2014, a romantic relationship finally blossomed.

That same year, I learned that, unfortunately, beautiful Brazil has its dark sides.

One evening, after leaving the private language school where I taught and pulling up outside my accommodation, a car suddenly swerved in front to block me in and another behind. 

The passenger door opened and a woman sat herself next to me, pointing a gun at my head shouting: ‘Give me the keys! Get out of the car!’ 

As I duly complied with her orders, she tossed my phone on the back seat and a man swiftly took my place in the driver’s seat. Then they sped off leaving me shivering and shaking.

I lost everything that day: the car, my driving licence, my laptop with my masters degree, my passport, my bank cards. Even a suitcase of teaching clothes and my beloved teddy had gone. For almost two weeks, I was a zombie in a daze constantly searching for my car among the city traffic. The only positive was Manoel.

Through it all, he never left my side. He held me tight, wiped my tears, contacted my family and reminded me that, actually, I had been lucky. My life had been spared.

Our bond intrinsically grew from there and we married the following year in 2015. 

At first we tried to make our life in Brazil work, but the carjacking had such a huge impact on my confidence and sense of safety that I became agoraphobic. 

Working became more difficult so I sought promising opportunities in the UK, which I was successful in securing, and our time was increasingly split between the two countries.

The first of our two boys, Jaime, then arrived in 2016, and Emanoel was born in 2017. And by September 2019, following a summer of tutoring English at a UK university, I realised I could no longer return to the apprehension and intimidation I endured while in Brazil. 

Luckily, Manoel was understanding and we agreed that, as our boys were British, they would remain in the UK with me. Meanwhile he would return to Brazil and apply to join us here in the UK permanently.

What we came to learn though was that, in order for us to do that, I, the British citizen, would need to meet a minimum income threshold [MIR] of at least £18,600 – plus £3,800 a year for Manoel’s daughter from a previous marriage.

At that time I was earning £23,000 but most of it was being spent on nursery fees. And when I learned that there were substantial visa fees and application costs – somewhere in the region of £5-8,000 without adding on legal advice – too, I was stunned.

What was already unaffordable became simply even more unattainable when, three months later, Covid struck and saw me go from employed to furlough to redundancy and before I knew it, six months had passed, with our family separated by force.

Contact with Manoel was (and still is) limited to online communications such as Facebook messenger and WhatsApp but, due to time differences and work commitments, we were only able to grab time during the week for a couple of quick chats and a longer call at weekends.

When they were younger, that led the boys to believe Daddy ‘lived in the phone’. That hurt. It also meant the boys have needed extra help to process their emotions.

Over five years on, with our boys now aged seven and eight, we’re still fighting to be together. In that time, we’ve only been reunited twice.

First, in July 2023, after almost four years of separation, our boys funded a three-week summer holiday to Brazil with money they earned from modelling. 

That time together – taking walks along the beach, meeting up with family the boys barely remembered, and teaching Jaime and Emanoel about their Brazilian heritage, background and culture that had been denied to them – reinforced to us that what we have is worth fighting for. 

Then, last year, Manoel came to live with us for six months. Our dreams of being a together family – Manoel watching our boys playing football for their teams, going on numerous outings and celebrating special occasions that he’d missed out on in previous years such as mine and Jaime’s birthdays – all came true, albeit temporarily.

The fact we still live in a perpetual cycle of ecstatic hellos and devastating goodbyes is just wrong and I torture myself because I have no other choice.

It always strikes me as ludicrous how a government thinks the public’s purse is better off subsidising a ‘single’ mother and the children’s mental health needs, rather than allowing a ‘together’ family to support each other.

If Manoel were here, if we had two parents sharing childcare responsibilities, I honestly believe I could have earned much more. Instead, being an enforced single mum has caused me to miss the MIR threshold on various occasions.

I’ve been offered a job with a salary well above the MIR, only to have the offer withdrawn after being unable to attend a five-day residential training course, six hours away from home, with 48 hours’ notice. 

I’ve missed meeting the threshold because one boy was ill or shared his bugs with the other so I’ve had to take unpaid leave to look after them. Even running an acting school franchise  fell short because the cost-of-living crisis put dampeners on its success. 

Currently, I have four jobs – three are as brand ambassadors on zero hour contracts, and the other is a part time marketing contract – but I am doing everything I can to to improve my employment prospects

I’ve successfully passed a free level two course in digital marketing and I’ve waited six months to apply for funding for a project management course, which could change everything. 

Another disadvantage to enforced separation is the financial burden of running two households. We have to run as independent units, each looking after their own, meaning neither side of the Atlantic can afford to help the other.  

Every time it seems like we’re getting close, the goal posts change. The last UK government increased the minimum income requirement by almost £10,000 to £29,000, which is just crazy considering nearly half the UK population doesn’t even earn this amount. 

Despite everything, I’m hopeful about 2025. I’m hopeful I’ll secure a job that meets the minimum income requirement and will allow me to save at least £5,000 to cover all the visa fees and application costs.

Although we will now never be able to be a complete ‘together family’ as my daughter-in-law will turn 18, and she will be unable to come join us.

I’m also hopeful that the current family visa review – commissioned by the Home Secretary to investigate the fairness of the spouse visa policies – will inform the new government and bring about much needed change. 

Too few people realise that British and settled citizens have their families torn apart this way, but I’m hoping that changes soon.

Families separated by the excessive minimum income requirement need hope too. It causes more harm than good.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing James.Besanvalle@metro.co.uk. 

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