By S@rah, Houston, Texas
I didn’t just end my marriage; I put my husband on a plane back to the trenches. And for the first time in months, I slept like a baby the night he left.
Half the people in my church call me a demon. The other half whisper they would have done the same thing. Before you type “Wicked Woman” in the comments, hear me out.
My name is S@rah. I’m a registered nurse living in Houston, Texas. I work double shifts, standing on my feet for 12 hours a day, wiping backsides and enduring abuse from patients, just to save enough money.
Why?
To bring the “love of my life,” M!chael, to America.
We met three years ago when I went home for Christmas. M!chael was charming, handsome, with an accent that made my knees weak. He was a struggling engineer with big dreams but no opportunities.
“Baby, if you just get me to the States, I will treat you like a queen,” he promised. “I’ll work hard. I’ll build us an empire.”
I believed him. I was 32, single, lonely in a big house, dreaming of a family. I spent $15,000 on lawyers, filing fees, and flights. I sponsored his K-1 Visa.
When M!chael landed at George Bush Intercontinental Airport, I cried tears of joy. I thought my life was beginning.
For the first six months, he was perfect. He cooked, cleaned, rubbed my feet after my hospital shifts.
“You are my angel,” he’d say.
We got married at the courthouse and filed for his Green Card. The interview was scheduled for next week.
Then, last Sunday, everything changed.
I came home early from my shift because of a migraine. The house was quiet. Michael wasn’t in the living room. I walked toward the bedroom and heard him laughing on a video call.
Something about his tone was different. He wasn’t speaking the sweet English he used with me. He was speaking Pidgin, fast and aggressive.
“Don’t worry, babe. The maga doesn’t suspect anything,” he said.
Maga? My heart stopped. In our slang, it means a fool. A victim of a scam.
I crept closer.
“The interview is next week,” he continued. “Once I get that Green Card, I’ll file for divorce, claim ‘irreconcilable differences,’ and by next year, file for you and the kids to come over. America is sweet, babe. Just be patient.”
A woman’s voice crackled. “We miss you, daddy. Junior asks for you every day.”
“Tell Junior daddy is working on his future. This woman is just the ladder. You are the owner of the house.”
I didn’t scream. I didn’t storm in. A cold calmness washed over me—the kind of calm that scares you more than anger.
I went to a coffee shop for three hours and realized everything was a lie. The love, the foot rubs, the cooking—it was all a performance.
That night, I acted normal. I even kissed him.
The next morning, while he was at the gym, I went online. I withdrew my sponsorship. I wrote to USCIS explaining that the marriage was fraudulent and that I would no longer support him financially.
I didn’t tell Michael.
The morning of his interview, he looked sharp in his suit, confident.
“Ready to make us official, baby?” he asked.
“I’m ready,” I smiled.
When his name was called, two ICE officers walked out instead of an immigration officer. They checked his ID and told him his petition had been withdrawn and his visa had expired.
His face? Confusion.
“S@rah? What is going on?”
“I am not a ladder, M!chael. And this maga has closed the bank,” I said, walking out as he shouted my name, handcuffed.
He’s now in a detention center awaiting deportation. His family has been calling and cursing me, sending Bible verses about forgiveness. His “real wife” even begged me to reconsider for the sake of their children.
But I feel nothing. I worked too hard for my peace to let a squatter live in it.
Now, I sit in my quiet house, sipping wine, asking myself: Did I go too far? Should I have just divorced him and let him stay? Or did he get exactly what he ordered?
Tell me your thoughts in the comments below. 👇🏾
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