U

I realised, as she walked through the door, her arms so full of memorabilia of her life that she could barely see over the top of them, that this was the last of her things - she was really moving in here with me.

We had been tentative about this move, there was so much working against us. She was going to cross an ocean to be with me, in a country where she didn't speak the language. Hell, I barely spoke English. I learned it for the sole purpose of communicating with her better.

She had so much more to learn though, but learn she did. She learned to enjoy the different flavours of our food - at first, she prickled at the idea of spiced food but bless that woman, she never stopped trying anything, no matter numb or swollen her tongue and lips got. She always dove in to get more.

Not many partners get to experience this but we actually acknowledged the first joke we understood between each other - not a funny face, or a slapstick action - but a joke where she made a pun and I caught it. It was a special moment to discover humour between two languages.

The first friends she tried to make were with our neighbours. In her broken language and irresistible smile, she managed to invite them over to tea. They probably came over because they misunderstood and suspected she needed their help with something in the house, but they relaxed when they met me and I explained that it was a friendly invite and nothing needed fixing.

Who knew, in one sitting of a perfectly innocent tea party, everything could go so wrong.

The neighbours were intrigued by a foreign woman, it was clear that they had never crossed one before, much less be invited to tea by one. Their questions started innocent enough - how do we communicate, what was her hometown like, did she like the corn here. I happily translated and she answered their curiosity graciously.

They watched our to-and-fro, and as their curiosity gave way and impatience for answers took hold, they started directing their questions at me - how did we meet, do her parents know about me, how do I know this would work out if we didn't even speak the same language. I answered them first and tried to translate it after but as the questions got more intrusive, and I became slightly defensive, the translations stopped. She listened on and tried to smile past the discomfort.

The thing with learning a language is that you start understanding much earlier than you start speaking. When I finally got the nosy neighbors out of our place, she was furious. Not only had she felt like a fool being completely cut out of the conversation, but she had also understood that I agreed with them when they said it must be difficult being in a relationship with a foreigner (technically I agreed that it was not easy).

She noisily collected the teacups and dumped the remaining tea angrily into the sink before I could say I wanted to finish it.

The weeks that followed became a laborious, downward spiral of resentment. As she started unpacking her belongings and making her mark around the house, I started to feel pushed out of my own home. It was almost like she was overcompensating for the fact that she left her home to be here with me and took up much more space than she needed.

I couldn't help but notice my bills had doubled. She came from money but somehow I felt like I was always getting the short end of the stick and paying for more than I should have to.

The language barrier reared its ugly head again frequently. I became frustrated that she had made no effort to learn my language despite living in my country. People would always turn their heads when we were talking, and she looked so exotic with her pale skin and light-colored hair that she was hard to miss. Some people were curious and intrigued, many others were disapproving, but I wasn't sure if she noticed the latter.

The humor that we loved discovering quickly became sour. I learned a new outlet of humor in English - sarcasm. I wasn't sure if I was always using it correctly, but if I didn't, she would surely correct me, which still gave me pleasure to see her irritation.

Finally, I decided it needed to end. We tried, and we failed, miserably. We failed to beat the odds, and the neighbors were right after all. I penned a well-thought letter explaining that I needed my independence and put my John Hancock at the bottom. I left it on the kitchen table, ironically not far from where the tea party had taken place and went for a walk.

When I returned, I found her sitting at the table, the letter still in hand, tears streaked across her beautiful face. She said she wanted to make it work. I held her in my arms, unable to face her tears. She promised she would do better and I let her make all her promises, but I knew I still wanted out, no matter how much she cried. She didn't let me sleep in a separate room that night so we went to bed together.

In the days that followed, the overcompensation became more obvious to me. She put her photos of her mother around the house, she took us out for a very expensive dinner (which I paid for), and showered me with affection that I found desperate. I knew she didn't want to leave, she didn't want to go back and admit failure back home.

Undaunted, I took the initiative of packing her things for her, and after more tearful fights and hurtful exchanges, there she stood in the doorway, her arms so full of memorabilia of her life that she could barely see over the top of them. The last thing I said to her before I slammed the door shut was, "I'm never going out with u again".