I came to New York as an international student and earned my degree, but my visa was about to expire. Returning to Korea meant moving back in with my parents, who had sacrificed so much to support my education. At the time, that felt like a personal failure. As the expiration date drew closer, I grew increasingly anxious.
One Sunday, while waiting for my laundry in the basement of my apartment building, I was reading an art book when a Korean man struck up a conversation. After a series of questions, he introduced himself as a graduate of the same university and invited me to his apartment the following weekend.
When I arrived, I was surprised to find an old college classmate there: Dooil.
“What are you doing here?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Our mutual acquaintance had clearly hoped to play matchmaker, but neither of us was impressed. We went our separate ways afterward.
Unlike me, Dooil already had permanent residency. As my visa deadline approached, I began considering an idea that seemed unthinkable. Pride had become a luxury I could no longer afford.
A few days before my visa expired, I spoke to him directly.
“My visa ends soon. I’ll have to go back to Seoul. Will you help me get a green card?”
He looked uncomfortable and stared into space.
“Well? Yes or no?”
“People pay a lot of money for that these days,” he replied.
“How much?”
“I don't know.”
Then, gathering all my courage, I made an offer.
“Fine. I'll buy us a house someday.”
That very day, we went to Chinatown. I bought a $30 ring for myself and a $50 ring for him. We picked up two friends as witnesses and rushed to City Hall in a yellow taxi. The ceremony lasted less than two minutes. Before I could fully understand what had happened, we were married—one day before my visa expired.
Afterward, we celebrated with friends over lunch and bottles of Tsingtao beer in Chinatown. Since I had proposed the arrangement, I paid for everything: the rings, the taxi, the food, and the drinks.
At the subway entrance, Dooil asked, “Is that all you needed?”
“Yes.”
I turned and walked away.
Although legally married, we continued living separately with our roommates. Soon afterward, I filed for permanent residency.
Several months later, Dooil's father, who lived in Los Angeles, invited us to visit. He wanted to hold a proper wedding ceremony. I declined at first, but he insisted and even sent us plane tickets.
His family was reserved and practical, but his father welcomed me warmly.
“I like Seoul girls,” he said. “Please take good care of my son. We'll give you a proper wedding and a diamond ring.”
I hesitated before answering.
“Actually, I don't want a diamond ring. Could you give me the money instead?”
He looked at me in disbelief.
“Why?”
“Because I don't care for shiny stones. I'd rather use the money to build a life in New York.”
Concerned about our unusual marriage, he invited my parents from Korea to attend the wedding as well. I had already persuaded them not to spend money on traditional gifts. If they wanted to help us, cash would be far more useful.
In the end, both families contributed money, and after the ceremony we returned to New York with a modest nest egg.
For the next two years, I saved every dollar I could. Eventually, I bought a house.
“Well,” I told Dooil, “I kept my promise. I bought us a house.”
He laughed.
“Do you know something? Before we got married, my mother had our fortunes read. The fortune-teller said he'd never seen such a perfect match. At the time, I thought it was nonsense. I had nothing. Yet somehow, everything turned out well. That's because of you.”
“Then why were you so reluctant to marry me?”
He smiled.
“Honestly? I simply didn't think I was ready for marriage.”
The years passed quickly.
Today, Dooil and I have been married for thirty-seven years.
One day he looked at my aging hands and said, “Should I finally buy you a diamond ring? Maybe one as big as a soybean.”
I laughed.
“Forget the diamond. On days when I don't feel like cooking, just bring home takeout from Koreatown.”
A few days later, he returned carrying bags of food and placed them proudly on the table. Inside were seolleongtang, bindaetteok, cheonggukjang, and grilled mackerel.
“I'll bring these more often,” he said. “Eat well.”
Then he carefully picked a piece of golden-brown mackerel from the bone and placed it on top of my rice.
Looking at him, I realized that the diamond ring I had refused all those years ago had never been the real treasure. After thirty-seven years together, a warm meal shared across the table shone far brighter than any diamond ever could.
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