Half the people in my church are calling me a demon. The other half is whispering that they would have done the same thing. But before you type “Wicked Woman” in the comments, listen to what this man did to me.
My name is Sarah. I’m a Registered Nurse living in Houston, Texas. I worked double shifts, standing on my feet for 12 hours a day, wiping backsides and taking abuse from patients, just to save enough money.
Why?
To bring the “Love of my Life,” Michael, to America.
We met when I went home for Christmas three years ago. Michael was charming, handsome, and spoke with that smooth 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 will work hard. I will build us an empire.”
I believed him. I was 32, single, and lonely in a big house. I wanted a family. I spent $15,000 on lawyers, filing fees, and flights. I sponsored his K-1 Visa.
When Michael 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. He cleaned. He rubbed my feet when I came home from the hospital.
“You are my angel,” he would say.
We got married at the courthouse. We filed for his Green Card (Adjustment of Status). The interview was scheduled for next week.
Last Sunday, I came home early from my shift because I had a migraine.
The house was quiet. Michael wasn’t in the living room. I walked toward the bedroom, and I heard him laughing. He was on a video call.
I stopped. Something about his tone was… different. He wasn’t speaking the sweet English he spoke to 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, “Maga” means a fool. A victim of a scam.
I crept closer to the door.
“The interview is next week,” he continued, laughing. “Once I get that Green Card in my hand, I give it six months. Then I will file for divorce, claim ‘irreconcilable differences,’ and by next year, I will file for you and the kids to come over. America is sweet, babe. Just be patient.”
A woman’s voice crackled on the speaker. “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 kick down the door. A cold calmness washed over me. The kind of calm that scares you more than anger.
I walked back to my car, drove to a coffee shop, and sat there for three hours. I realized everything was a lie. The love. The foot rubs. The cooking. It was all a performance to secure his stay.
I went home later that evening and acted like everything was normal. I even kissed him.
But the next morning, while he was at the gym, I went to the USCIS website.
I withdrew my Sponsorship.
I wrote a letter to the immigration officer explaining that the marriage was fraudulent and that I was no longer willing to support him financially.
I didn’t tell Michael.
The morning of the interview, he put on his best suit. He looked so handsome. So confident.
“Ready to make us official, baby?” he asked, fixing his tie.
“I’m ready,” I smiled.
We sat in the waiting room. When they called his name, the officer didn’t invite us into an office.
Two ICE officers walked out instead.
They asked for his ID. They told him his petition had been withdrawn by the sponsor and his visa had expired. The look on his face? It wasn’t fear. It was pure confusion. He looked at me.
“Sarah? What is going on?”
I stood up, smoothed my dress, and looked him dead in the eye. “I am not a ladder, Michael. And this Maga has closed the bank.” I walked out of that building while he was shouting my name in handcuffs.
He is currently in a detention center awaiting deportation. His family back home has been blowing up my phone, cursing me, sending me Bible verses about forgiveness.
His “real wife” even sent me a DM begging 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’m sitting in my quiet house, drinking wine. Did I go too far? Should I have just divorced him and let him stay? Or did he get exactly what he ordered?
What’s your take on this?
