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

"Theo, Noah hurt his foot. I need to go check on him."

Her eyes darted between urgency and guilt—watching me, reading me.

She was testing the line.

Testing whether I'd finally snap.

But I was calm. I just nodded.

"Okay."

She didn't seem to expect me to agree so easily. A flicker of surprise crossed her face.

"Then… the rest of the immigration paperwork, can I leave that to you?"

I nodded.

"Sure."

Something shifted in her expression, maybe a trace of guilt.

"Theo, you're the best."

She came over and took my hand.

"Think about it—this is actually better, right? I'll go ahead and get everything set up, so you won't have to scramble when you get there."

She seemed relieved to have found herself a reasonable excuse.

"I'll wait for your update. I'll pick you up at the airport."

I pulled my hand free. Still calm.

"Go take care of it."

I turned and went back to packing.

Her hand hung in the air, frozen midreach.

Then another message from Noah lit up her phone.

"Martha, did you book your ticket yet? I think my foot's swelling up…"

Without another thought, she threw a few clothes together and headed straight for the airport.

The next day, Noah posted on social media.

In the photo, Martha was wearing an apron, head down, chopping vegetables.

The caption read: "Chinese food today! It feels so nice having someone cook for you."

It hit me like something physical, a blow right under the ribs.

She could cook.

Ten years in the United States, and I'd been the one cooking every single meal.

That winter I came down with a fever—thirty-nine degrees, burning through me for two straight days. I hadn't eaten a thing.

"Martha… could you make me some congee? Just a bowl, anything."

She'd been texting Noah. She frowned when she heard me.

"I don't know how."

Eventually, she pulled on a coat, reluctant.

"I'll go grab you something from the restaurant downstairs."

I waited forty minutes.

What I got back was a bottle of cold milk and a burger—carried in after she'd already eaten her fill downstairs.

That kind of cold goes deeper than fever. It settles somewhere it doesn't leave.

Then later, I talked myself out of it.

Everyone has strengths and weaknesses.

I shouldn't ask too much of her.

Now I finally understood. She'd never been unable to cook.

She just never wanted to cook for me.

The house, the car, the bank accounts—all of it gone. Ten years of building a life, compressed into a few boxes, a few documents, a few wire transfers, all within a single month.

I sorted through her things one by one and shipped everything to her.

Three days later, Martha called.

"Theo, I got the luggage. When's your flight?"

She hadn't even noticed—everything in those boxes was hers. Not a single thing of mine.

I kept my voice flat.

"Three days."

She sounded excited.

"I'll pick you up at the airport! Send me your departure time."

"Oh, and Noah's already decided he wants your braised pork ribs—he's been going on about it since he heard you're coming. Honestly, I've been dying for them too."

I said nothing.

I hadn't even arrived, and they'd already lined up my duties.

"Theo? Did you hear me?"

"I heard you."

"Then it's settled! I'll pick you up, and we'll go grocery shopping together."

I didn't respond.

She hung up anyway.

As if my agreement was a given.

Three days later, I stood in the departure hall at Boston Logan International Airport.

Martha sent a voice message.

"Theo, Noah's in the hospital—something with his stomach, it came on fast. I have to stay with him."

"Just take a cab back to the apartment when you land."

I didn't reply.

After a while, she sent another message.

"Theo, why aren't you answering? Things are really hectic here, I can't come pick you up."