My husband and I met as I, a lifelong Angelino, was fleeing Los Angeles. I had just lost a live-in boyfriend to a break-up and a job to firing and an apartment because it belonged to my ex. I was starting over in a new city, Toronto, in my dear married friends’ spare bedroom. A dual citizen, I’d relocated in June of 2014, and by November, I—one Fish among Plenty—had met Eric online. At this point in my life, I’d already kissed plenty of frogs (if not fish), whereas Eric was less experienced, and thus possibly more optimistic, about matters of the heart. Two weeks into our courtship, he asked me to move 3,000 miles away with him to British Columbia, where he’d start graduate school in nine months’ time. I agreed.  The move coincided with our...

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