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“So I could stay and still not be permitted to work.”

“Yes.”

I add a line under MARRIAGE.

No immediate work authorization.

“What would have to be proved?”

“That the marriage is legal and you went into it in good faith, not for the green card. A shared life. Intent. Evidence. Both of you answering questions about the relationship you actually have.”

“We do not share an address.”

“That’s evidence you don’t have. It’s not the only evidence there is.”

“We have had one kiss.”

Elena sets down her pen.

“Then I’d advise against treating marriage as paperwork you can finish by Friday.”

Heat arrives in my face. “I was not proposing fraud.”

“I know. I’m telling you because fear makes smart people turn options into instructions.”

The sentence lands cleanly and I do not resent it, which may be the most alarming thing that has happened in this office.

“The relationship is real,” I say. “It is also new.”

“Both can be true.”

“Would marriage keep Tova here?”

“It can open a lawful family-based path for both of you. Nothing about it is automatic.”

“But it is a path.”

“Yes.”

What I do not say to her is the part that has been underneath this since she wrote his name down.

His contract ends with the season. His season is not going to pause because my daughter’s status is attached to mine.

Elena has written down a citizen.

I am looking at a man whose spring ends at the same time as mine.

I want him here badly enough that my fingers tighten on the pen.

I am not going to make the choice for him by keeping the question out of the room.

That impulse has a shape I recognize.

I put the pen down.

“He does not know about the clock.”

“What does he know?”