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.

"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."