Chapter 33
title: "The USCIS Interview" wordCount: 2812
Officer Martinez has the kind of face that's seen every type of fraud, and when she looks at Nora and says, "So, Mrs. Park, tell me about the day your husband proposed," Nora's mind goes completely blank.
The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Daniel sits beside her, his hands folded on the table between them, and she can feel the heat radiating off his body even though there's six inches of space separating their chairs. They'd practiced this. Spent three evenings going over their story until it sounded natural, until the lies felt smooth on her tongue.
"It was—" Her voice cracks. She clears her throat. "It was at the loft. Our loft. He made dinner."
"What did he make?"
The question comes fast, like Martinez is trying to catch her off guard. Nora's grandmother's jade bracelet feels heavy on her wrist. She touches it without thinking, the way she always does when she needs to ground herself.
"Japchae," Daniel says. His voice is flat. Careful. "I made japchae because Nora had mentioned she wanted to learn how to make it properly."
Martinez writes something down. The scratch of her pen against paper sounds too loud in the small room. "And you proposed over dinner?"
"After," Nora says. "After dinner. We were doing the dishes and he just—he asked."
"What exactly did he say?"
Daniel's knee bounces once under the table. Just once. Then stops.
"I said that I could not imagine my life without her," he says. "I asked if she would marry me."
No contractions. Nora's stomach twists. She'd noticed it in the waiting room too, the way his speech had gone rigid, formal. Like he was reading from a script he'd memorized but didn't quite believe.
Martinez looks at Nora. "And what did you say?"
"I said yes." The words come out too fast. "Obviously. I mean, I said yes."
"Why?"
The question hangs in the air between them. Why. Such a small word for such an enormous lie.
"Because I love him," Nora says, and her voice sounds strange even to her own ears. "Because he—okay so, he does this thing where he asks if I've eaten instead of asking how I am, and at first I thought it was weird but then I realized it's because he shows love through food, through making sure people are taken care of, and that's—that's how I show love too, right? So it made sense. We made sense."
She's rambling. She knows she's rambling. But Martinez is writing again, and Daniel's hand has moved closer to hers on the table, not touching but close enough that she can feel the almost-contact like static electricity.
"Mr. Park," Martinez says without looking up. "What do you do for work?"
The air in the room changes. Nora feels it like a pressure drop before a storm.
"Maintenance and property management," Daniel says.
"Which properties?"
His jaw tightens. "A community garden in Greenpoint. A few buildings in the area."
"A few buildings." Martinez finally looks up. "Can you be more specific?"
"Three residential buildings on Franklin Avenue. One mixed-use property on Manhattan Avenue. The garden plot on Noble Street."
The lies come out smooth as glass. Nora's nails dig into her palms, leaving little crescents in the skin. She wants to look at him, wants to see his face, but she keeps her eyes on Martinez instead.
"And how much do you make annually from this work?"
"Enough," Daniel says.
"I need a number, Mr. Park."
"Seventy-five thousand."
Martinez writes this down too. Nora does the math in her head—that's barely enough to cover the loft's rent, let alone everything else. The furniture. The kitchen equipment. The way he'd paid for her new blog hosting without blinking.
"Mrs. Park, are you aware of your husband's financial situation?"
"Yes," Nora says, because what else can she say?
"And you're comfortable with it?"
"Money isn't—" She stops. Starts again. "My parents lost everything when I was in college. I know what it's like to have nothing. Daniel works hard. He's good at what he does. That's what matters."
It's the most honest thing she's said since they sat down, and maybe Martinez hears it too because her expression softens slightly. Just slightly.
"How did you two meet?"
This one they'd practiced. This one is easy.
"At my restaurant," Nora says. "He came in for lunch. Ordered the same thing every day for two weeks—bulgogi bibimbap with extra gochujang. I started making it before he even walked through the door."
"And you asked her out?" Martinez looks at Daniel.
"No." His mouth quirks, almost a smile. "She asked me why I always ate alone."
"I did not ask you out," Nora says, turning to him before she can stop herself. "I just—I was curious. You always had this look on your face like you were solving a complicated equation in your head."
"You were worried I was not enjoying the food."
"You never smiled."
"I was enjoying it."
"You could have said something."
"I did. I kept coming back."
They're not performing anymore. Nora realizes it the same moment Daniel seems to—his eyes widen slightly, and he looks away, back to Martinez, who's watching them with an expression Nora can't quite read.
"Mrs. Park," Martinez says. "What do you love about your husband?"
The question lands like a punch. Nora opens her mouth. Closes it. Her throat feels tight.
"He asks if I've eaten," she says finally. "Every day. Even when he's busy, even when we're fighting, he asks. And he brings me lunch when I forget to make it myself. He—" She stops, swallows. "He notices things. Small things. Like how I always burn my tongue on coffee because I'm too impatient to let it cool, so he started making it earlier so it would be the right temperature when I got to it. Or how I can't sleep if there's dishes in the sink, so he does them even when he's exhausted. He pays attention. That's what I love. He pays attention."
The words hang in the air. True and not true at the same time. Because he does do those things. He does pay attention. But she doesn't love him.
Does she?
Martinez turns to Daniel. "And you, Mr. Park? What do you love about your wife?"
Daniel is quiet for so long that Nora thinks he's not going to answer. Then:
"She teaches," he says. "When she cooks, she explains everything. Why the pan needs to be hot before you add the oil. Why you salt the water for pasta. Why you rest the meat. She makes it make sense. And when she is teaching, she gets this—" He gestures vaguely at his own face. "This look. Like she is sharing something precious. Like she is letting you into a secret. I love watching her teach. I love that she wants to share what she knows."
Nora's chest feels too tight. She can't look at him. Can't breathe properly.
"She also leaves flour everywhere," Daniel adds. "On the counters. On the floor. On her face. I find it in places flour should not be. But I do not mind. It means she has been creating something."
"Okay," Martinez says, and closes her folder. "I think we're done here."
They don't speak in the elevator. Don't speak walking through the lobby, past the security checkpoint, out into the grey afternoon where the sky threatens rain but hasn't committed yet. Nora's hands are shaking. She shoves them in her coat pockets.
"Did we pass?" she asks when they're half a block away.
"I do not know."
Contractions again. Or lack of them. She stops walking, turns to face him. "Are you okay?"
"I can handle it."
"That's not what I asked."
Daniel looks at her, and there's something in his expression she hasn't seen before. Something raw. "We should go home. In case they call."
Home. The word sits wrong in her mouth. The loft isn't home. It's a stage. A set they've built for an audience of one.
Except it hadn't felt like a stage in there. When she'd talked about him asking if she'd eaten, when he'd described watching her teach—that had felt real. Dangerously real.
Her phone buzzes. She pulls it out, expecting another angry blog comment, another accusation. Instead it's a text from an unknown number: "Interview complete. Decision pending. You will receive notification by mail within 30 days."
"They texted," she says, showing him the screen.
Daniel reads it, his face unreadable. "Thirty days."
"Is that normal?"
"I do not know. I have never done this before."
The almost-joke falls flat. Nora puts her phone away, and they start walking again. The subway station is three blocks away. She counts her steps, focuses on the rhythm of her feet against pavement, anything to avoid thinking about the way her chest had tightened when he'd talked about watching her teach.
"The flour thing was true," she says.
"I know."
"I didn't realize you'd noticed."
"I notice everything about you."
The words are quiet, almost lost in the sound of traffic, but they hit her like a physical thing. She stops again, and this time when she looks at him, he's already looking back.
"Daniel—"
"We should celebrate," he says, cutting her off. "We got through the interview. That is worth celebrating, right?"
Right. Her word. He's using her word, and she doesn't know if it's deliberate or if he's picked it up without realizing, the way people do when they spend too much time together.
"Yeah," she says. "Okay. Let's just—let's go home first. I need to change."
The loft is exactly as they left it that morning—dishes drying in the rack, her laptop open on the counter, Daniel's jacket draped over the back of the couch. Normal. Domestic. Fake.
Nora drops her bag by the door and goes straight to the kitchen. She needs to do something with her hands. Needs to cook, to create, to transform raw ingredients into something that makes sense.
"What are you making?" Daniel asks from behind her.
"I don't know yet." She pulls out flour, butter, eggs. "Something."
"You are stress baking."
"I'm stress existing. Let me have this."
He doesn't argue. Just leans against the counter and watches as she measures flour into a bowl, adds salt, cuts in cold butter with her fingers until the mixture looks like coarse sand. Pie crust. She's making pie crust, apparently. Fine. She can work with that.
"You were good in there," Daniel says.
"I lied."
"You told the truth."
"I told a version of the truth that supported a bigger lie. That's not the same thing."
She adds ice water, one tablespoon at a time, mixing with a fork until the dough just comes together. Her grandmother taught her this. Taught her that you can't overwork pie dough or it gets tough, that you have to handle it gently, with intention.
"Nora."
"What?"
"Look at me."
She doesn't want to. Keeps her eyes on the dough, on her flour-dusted hands, on anything but him. But he says her name again, softer this time, and she looks up.
"Thank you," he says. "For doing this. For—" He stops. Starts again. "I know this is not what you wanted. I know I have asked too much. But thank you."
The words sit between them, heavy with everything they're not saying. Nora wraps the dough in plastic, puts it in the fridge to chill. Washes her hands. Dries them on a towel.
"You're welcome," she says, because what else is there to say?
Her phone buzzes again. Then again. She ignores it. Probably more blog comments, more people calling her a liar, a fake, a sellout. They're not wrong. She is all of those things.
Daniel's phone rings. He pulls it out, looks at the screen, and his whole body goes rigid.
"I need to take this," he says, and disappears into the bedroom before she can respond.
Nora stands in the kitchen, listening to the muffled sound of his voice through the door. She can't make out words, but she can hear the tone—sharp, defensive. Angry.
She should give him privacy. Should focus on her pie, on deciding what filling to make, on anything other than the conversation happening ten feet away.
Instead, she moves closer to the bedroom door.
"—told you I would handle it," Daniel is saying. "The interview went fine. We are fine."
A pause. Then: "That is none of your business."
Another pause, longer this time. Nora presses her ear against the door, her blood pounding.
"I do not care what the board thinks," Daniel says, and his voice has gone cold in a way she's never heard before. "I am not selling the garden. I am not selling anything. The trust is mine now. You cannot—"
He stops. Listens. When he speaks again, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"Do not threaten me, Richard. Do not threaten my wife. If you come near her, if you so much as look at her wrong, I will—"
The door opens. Nora stumbles back, nearly loses her balance. Daniel catches her elbow, steadies her, and the look on his face makes her stomach drop.
"I have to go," he says into the phone, and hangs up.
They stare at each other. His hand is still on her elbow. She can feel each individual finger, the pressure of his grip, the heat of his palm through her sleeve.
"How much did you hear?" he asks.
"Enough." Her voice comes out steadier than she feels. "Who's Richard?"
"My uncle."
"And the trust?"
Daniel lets go of her elbow. Steps back. "It is complicated."
"Then uncomplicate it."
"I cannot."
"Can't or won't?"
"Both." He runs a hand through his hair, and she notices for the first time how exhausted he looks. Like he hasn't slept properly in days. "Nora, please. Just—trust me. For a little longer. I will explain everything, I promise, but not yet. Not today."
She wants to push. Wants to demand answers, to make him tell her what the hell is actually going on. But there's something in his expression that stops her. Something desperate and afraid and so unlike the careful, controlled Daniel she's come to know.
"Okay," she says. "But Daniel? Whatever this is, whatever you're not telling me—it better not blow up in our faces. Because I can't—" She stops. Swallows. "I can't lose everything again. I won't survive it a second time."
"You will not lose anything," he says. "I promise."
It's the kind of promise no one can keep. They both know it. But before she can say so, there's a knock at the door.
Three sharp raps, authoritative and impatient.
Daniel's face drains of color. "Do not answer that."
"Who is it?"
"Nora, please. Do not—"
But she's already moving toward the door, already looking through the peephole. A man stands in the hallway, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a suit that probably costs more than her entire wardrobe. He has Daniel's nose, Daniel's jawline, but where Daniel's face is all sharp angles and careful control, this man's face is smooth, practiced, dangerous.
"It's too late," the man calls through the door. "I know you are both in there. Daniel, stop being childish and let me in."
Nora looks back at Daniel. He's frozen in place, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"Is that Richard?" she asks.
He nods once. Sharp. Angry.
"Do you want me to tell him to leave?"
"It will not matter. He will not leave until he gets what he wants."
"And what does he want?"
"To ruin everything."
Another knock, harder this time. "Daniel. I am not going away. We need to talk about the board meeting tomorrow. Unless you would prefer I discuss it with your wife first?"
The threat is clear. Nora's hand is on the doorknob before she fully decides to open it. The man—Richard—smiles when he sees her. It's the kind of smile that doesn't reach his eyes, the kind that makes her skin crawl.
"Mrs. Park," he says, like he's tasting the name. "How lovely to finally meet you. I'm Richard Park, Daniel's uncle. May I come in?"
"No," Daniel says from behind her.
Richard's smile widens. "Now, now, kiddo. That's no way to treat family. Wouldn't you agree that we should all sit down and have a civilized conversation about your recent life choices?"
"Not here," Daniel says. His voice is tight. Controlled. "Not now."
"When, then? After the board meeting? After they vote to remove you? After they discover that your marriage is—" He pauses, looks at Nora with mock concern. "Oh dear. Has my nephew told you he's worth two point three billion dollars, or was he planning to keep that a secret too?"