15. Delilah
— ? —
Delilah
The walk to the main house feels longer than it used to.
My leg is getting stronger but this morning, every step feels like a small defeat. Like I’m walking toward something I’m not ready to face.
I need to see my daughter. That’s the only thing that matters right now. Everything else - Lucas, the divorce, the ruins of my marriage - can wait.
The kitchen door is already open when I arrive, morning light spilling across the threshold. I can hear Allana’s voice inside, high and bright, chattering about something I can’t quite make out. The sound of her pulls me forward like a lifeline.
“Mommy!”
She launches herself at me the moment I step through the door, her small body colliding with mine hard enough to make me stagger. I catch her, lifting her despite the protest from my leg, and bury my face in her hair.
“Hey, baby girl.” My voice catches. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” She pulls back to look at me, her face serious in that way only five-year-olds can manage. “Are you feeling better? Rosa said you were sleeping a lot because you’re sick.”
God bless Rosa.
“Much better.” I smooth the tangled hair back from her face. “I think I can come visit you every day now. Would you like that?”
“Every day?”
“Every single one.”
She beams, and for a moment - just a moment - the weight on my chest lifts. Whatever else falls apart, I still have this. I still have her.
“Can I come visit you too? In your little house?”
“Anytime you want, sweet girl.”
Rosa is at the stove, her back to us, but I can feel her awareness.
The way she’s carefully not turning around, giving us this moment.
I catch her eye when she finally does glance over, and something passes between us.
Gratitude. Understanding. The silent communication of women who’ve weathered storms together.
“Coffee’s fresh,” Rosa says simply.
“Thank you.”
Allana tugs at my hand. “Mommy, can we go see the horses? I want to show you what I drew. I drew Storm and he looks so good, Rosa said so.”
“Of course, baby. Show me everything.”
We spend the morning together - me and Allana, walking the familiar paths of the property, stopping to visit the horses, collecting rocks she finds interesting.
We stop by Stella’s paddock first. She’s healing - Mr. Velez moved her to the small pasture near the barn, where she can graze without straining the leg she bruised in the fall.
She nickers when she sees me, pushing her soft nose into my palm, and I stand there for a long time, just breathing her in.
“She missed you, Mommy,” Allana says.
“I missed her too.”
Allana chatters constantly, filling me in on everything I’ve missed: what Rosa made for dinner, how the barn cat had kittens, the way Daddy looked really sad when he came home and went straight to his room.
I file that last detail away. Don’t react. Don’t let her see the complicated tangle of emotions it stirs up.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, baby?”
“When you’re all better, can you ride Stella again? And Storm? I want to see you on your horses.”
Something in my chest loosens. An answer to a question I didn’t know I was asking.
“Yes, sweetheart. The doctor says I’ll be able to ride again soon. And I promise you’ll be there to watch.”
“Really truly?”
“Really truly. Cross my heart.”
She falls asleep on my bed in the cottage that afternoon, curled up like a comma, her thumb drifting toward her mouth the way it does when she’s deeply comfortable. I sit beside her in the dim light, watching her breathe, memorizing the sweep of her lashes against her cheeks.
This is why I’m staying close. This is why I didn’t pack a bag and disappear into the night. Whatever happens with Lucas, whatever the lawyers decide about custody and assets and all the ugly machinery of divorce - I will not let my daughter lose me.
Once I’m sure she’s deeply asleep, I slip out to the small table by the window. My laptop is open, cursor blinking, waiting.
I type: divorce attorneys Texas.
The results populate in an instant. Dozens of names, hundreds of reviews, a maze of legal jargon that makes my head spin. I scroll through them, clicking on profiles, reading testimonials, trying to find someone who understands what I’m facing.
One name keeps surfacing: Christina Charles.
The reviews are illuminating. Men call her ruthless, aggressive, a nightmare to deal with. One particularly bitter commenter calls her “the attorney women hire when they want to destroy their husbands.”
But the women - the women tell a different story. She saved my life. She believed me when no one else did. She fought for what I deserved.
I click on her profile. Sleek website, professional headshot, a list of credentials that goes on for pages. Family law specialist. Twenty years of experience. Known for high-asset divorces and complex custody cases.
Perfect.
I draft an email. Delete it. Draft another. Delete that one too.
What do you even say? Dear Ms. Charles, my husband replaced me with a younger woman, praised her on national television, and called me paranoid when I confronted him about it. Please help me escape this nightmare.
In the end, I keep it simple:
Ms. Charles,
I’m seeking representation for a divorce proceeding. My husband and I own a rodeo breeding business together, and there are significant assets as well as a five-year-old daughter to consider. I would appreciate the opportunity to discuss my situation at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,Delilah Montoya
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
The response comes faster than I expected - barely an hour later, while Allana is still napping.
Mrs. Montoya,
I’ve reviewed your preliminary information. I’d like to discuss your case. Are you available for a call this afternoon?
-Christina Charles
My fingers are trembling as I type back: Yes. Anytime.
The phone rings ten minutes later.
“Mrs. Montoya.” Christina’s voice is crisp, professional, and exactly what I need. No sympathy, no coddling - just competence. “I understand you’re considering divorce proceedings.”
“Yes.” The word comes out steadier than I feel.
“Walk me through the situation. Assets, timeline, any concerns about the separation.”
I tell her. Not everything - not the emotional devastation, not the nights of crying, not the way my heart still clenches when I hear his truck in the driveway - but the facts.
The business we built together. The investments, the property, the breeding program I designed.
Allana. The way he’s been pulling away, the other woman who’s taken up residence in our lives, the interview where he couldn’t even mention my name.
Christina listens without interrupting. When I finish, there’s a pause.
“Mrs. Montoya, based on what you’ve told me, you have a strong position. The business was built during your marriage, and your contributions - both financial and otherwise - are well-documented. I can help you protect what’s yours.”
“And Allana?”
“We’ll discuss custody in detail during our consultation. But from what you’ve described, there’s no reason you wouldn’t receive primary custody, with appropriate visitation for your husband.”
Primary custody. The words feel like armor.
“I want to schedule that consultation,” I say. “As soon as possible.”
“I have an opening early next week. Can you come to my office in Austin?”
“I’ll be there.”
We discuss a few more details - retainer fees, documentation I’ll need to gather, what to expect from the process. By the time we hang up, I have a consultation scheduled and a folder of notes, and something that almost feels like hope.
Not hope for my marriage. That ship has sailed.
But hope for myself. For the possibility of a life on the other side of this wreckage.
Allana wakes up as the afternoon light starts to fade, blinking and disoriented.
“Mommy?”
“Right here, baby.”
She reaches for me, and I pull her close, breathing her in.
“Can we make waffles?” she asks sleepily. “Heart-shaped ones, like you used to make?”
“Tomorrow morning,” I promise. “First thing. I’ll come get you early and we’ll make them together.”
“With chocolate chips?”
“Mountains of chocolate chips.”
She smiles, satisfied, and nestles against my shoulder.
We walk back to the main house together as the sun sets, her small hand in mine. She points out every interesting shadow, every bird flying overhead, every particularly good stick she spots on the path. I try to memorize all of it - her voice, her observations, the weight of her hand.
At the door, she turns back to me. “I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you more than all the stars in the sky.”
“I love you more than all the horses in the world.”
Our ritual. The one constant in a world that’s falling apart.
I watch her disappear inside, Rosa’s hand guiding her toward the kitchen. The door closes. The light fades.
I walk back to the cottage alone, and for the first time in days, I don’t feel like I’m drowning.
I feel like I’m swimming toward shore.