My Wife Chose Her First Love, So I Chose My Country

And now she'd used that sculpture to remind me.

*You can finally go to Cambridge.*

She didn't know. That sculpture wasn't a gift. It was a blade.

I didn't pick up the thread. Just kept sorting through my things in silence.

The trash can was piling up with the wreckage of us—wedding portraits, sample invitations from the ceremony, boarding passes from the honeymoon, all of it heaped together like debris.

"You're throwing all of this away?"

She sounded confused.

I'd treated every one of those things like something precious.

I kept my voice flat, my hands still moving.

"Too much stuff. Some of it has to go—can't hold on to everything."

A small frown crossed her face, as though she'd caught something beneath the words.

But she didn't move. She didn't reach into the trash to pull anything back out.

I pointed to a box in the corner—everything Noah had ever left behind with her. Old photos of the two of them. A scarf he'd given her. Letters in his handwriting.

"Those too?"

She panicked instantly, rushing over and clutching the box to her chest.

"You can't throw these away!"

Then she caught herself, realized how that looked, and forced an awkward laugh.

"These are Noah's things. I'll bring them back to him later."

When she said it, her eyes stayed on my face, expectant.

As if she were waiting for me to ask *where*.

I didn't ask. Just gave a flat "Oh."

The silence stretched. She shifted, uneasy, and finally ventured a question.

"Theo, have you been following up on the immigration paperwork?"

"I have."

"So... you've submitted all your documents?"

"Submitted."

She exhaled, a small smile of relief.

"Good."

I gave her nothing else.

Just tossed more things into the trash.

We started dealing with the house in the United States.

Martha started sharing apartment listings overseas on her social media—places she was browsing, places she was dreaming about.

Friends left comments.

*Already picked a place? We'll come visit once you're settled.*

I didn't like any of the posts. Didn't comment.

Ten years in that house. Every corner still held something of us.

On the living room wall hung a map of China—we'd put it up the day we moved in. She'd wrapped her arms around me then.

"When we go home, let's visit all of these places."

She'd pressed red pushpins into dozens of spots.

"These are the space cities. We'll go to every single one."

The map was still there. The red pushpins were still there.

But the woman who'd said those words had already forgotten.

"Theo, what do you think of this place? Right on the River Thames. You can see the London Eye from the balcony."

She watched me, testing.

I gave a quiet "Mm."

"Places back in China probably aren't bad either."

She froze. A flicker of confusion crossed her face.

"Theo, you don't like the UK?"

"Sure I do."

Her expression eased.

"Nice enough for a few days' visit."

She froze again.

She was about to say something when her phone rang.

A video call from Noah.

"Martha, my foot really hurts. I can't move..."

His brow was creased, his whole expression crumpling into something pitiful and small.

"What happened?"

Martha shot to her feet, voice tight with alarm.

"I missed a step going downstairs. Fell down the whole staircase..."

"I'm all alone here... there's nobody who can even get me to a hospital..."

Noah shook his head, the crease between his brows deepening.

"Don't move. Don't you dare move. I'm booking a flight right now."

She was already reaching for her bag when she turned to look at me.