I was twenty-three years old when I made this choice. I don’t regret it. If I could
rewind time, I would do it again. Maybe I would have done it differently, I’m not sure. I
don’t remember the exact conversation that we had but I do remember the
circumstances. We were only dating for three months, but he had just moved into
my apartment to help pay rent after I kicked my roommate out. Things were getting
serious way too quickly, and they were about to move at lightning fucking speed.

 

We were hanging out on the couch when he told me he wanted to be honest with
me in the beginning of our relationship so I wouldn’t think he had any ulterior
motives. He said this subject had essentially dissolved his last eight-year
relationship once his ex-girlfriend found out, and he didn’t want to make the same
mistake with us.

 

Naturally, I was nervous to hear what it was. What the fuck could it be? I was only
twenty-three, but he just turned thirty a few months before this. Does he have a kid?
Does he not love me? Does he have some weird fetish? A terminal disease? None of
these things would have stopped me from dating him–I was already head over heels
for him–but I was still suddenly nervous. My heart raced waiting for his confession. It
didn’t help that he seemed just as nervous to tell me this imperative piece of
information, but I hate to beat around the bush, so I told him to fucking spit it

out already.

 

He had been living in the US illegally for the last twenty years with his mom. He was
living in the US and going to school here since the 4th grade, but the last time they
visited Mexico they were nearly denied entry to come back, so they haven’t gone
back since he was eleven years old. He quickly explained that he didn’t want me to
find out years later and think he had only dated me for a green card or something
of the like. He was brave to be so transparent, and it made me happy despite his
anxiety. What he didn’t yet know about me was how much I fucking hate our

immigration laws and the way our government treats “illegal aliens.”

 

After he finished his confession, I told him I didn’t care about his legal status and
that I couldn’t possibly imagine how hard his life must have been the past twenty
years. My comforting words encouraged him to tell me more about how hard it was
for him and his mom to get jobs, to get driver’s licenses, to get an apartment or a

credit card. All things that I had always taken for granted.

 

By the end of it all, I had made up my mind.

 

I told him we should just get married.

 

At first, he was shocked into silence. After a moment, he asked me if I was being
serious, and without a second of hesitation I said, “Fuck yes I’m serious!” I told him he
deserves to be a citizen, that he deserves to not be afraid anymore. He shouldn’t
have to struggle to get a job, to have a credit score, or to buy a house one day. All of
these things that citizens don’t think about; these privileges I didn’t even realize I
have. For the first time in our relationship, he shed a couple tears. He embraced me
and let me know that I didn’t have to do this. We could wait and see where this
relationship takes us, he continued. My mind was already made up. “Fuck that,” I

said, “I’ll marry you now, so I can date you. Even if things don’t work out in the end, if
for some reason we end up divorced, I swear I won’t regret this choice or hang this
over your head. I love you and I want you safe..” I let it all fly out of my mouth without
thinking.

 

I don’t regret it. I would do it again.

 

It’s been 8 years, and I don’t regret marrying him. I don’t regret building a life with
him. I don’t regret fighting tooth and nail for him. I don’t regret defending him against
others and their opinions. I don’t regret studying with him for the citizenship test. I
don’t regret the hoops we had to jump through. I don’t regret helping him become a
citizen. I don’t regret our relationship. It was worth every fight, every struggle. It was
real, not fake. I really loved him.

 

I loved him.

 

Now, I’m thirty-one years old. We’ve just had our eight-year anniversary. He’s my
best friend, and he knows me better than anyone. He’s taken care of me and
supported me while I obtained not one, but two master’s degrees. We’ve supported
each other through so much shit. But now I feel stuck.

 

Trapped.

 

It’s been eight years and habits have formed, ties have been forged, and the webs we
weaved have developed knots becoming impossible to untangle. We’ve said things
we can’t take back. We’ve done things we can’t take back. He spent years working
too much, years neglecting me emotionally and physically. There is something missing now, and I know he knows it. But denial is a strong emotion. He’s forgotten
what I said that day I offered all of my privileges to him...

 

I’m trapped.

 

I don’t regret it.