20. Delilah
— ? —
Delilah
I go to the main house to see Allana.
The path is littered with debris from the storm - broken branches, scattered leaves, puddles that soak through my shoes with every step.
My leg aches from the walk, but I don’t care.
I need to see my daughter. Need to hold something real after this morning, after watching Lucas walk out of that cottage with his lopsided waffles and his too-late declarations.
I love you, he said.
Like love is enough. Like love fixes anything.
The first thing I notice when I reach the house: no trace of Aimie.
Her jacket isn’t on the hook by the door. Her boots aren’t lined up in the entryway. The kitchen - when I pass through - smells like Rosa’s cooking, warm and familiar, not whatever organic kale monstrosity Aimie was always preparing with her perfect portions and her condescending smile.
Something loosens in my chest. Just a little.
“Mommy!”
Allana barrels into me the second she sees me, her small body colliding with mine hard enough to make me stumble.
I grab the doorframe for balance, my crutches clattering to the floor - I brought them just in case, my leg still unpredictable - and she wraps her arms around my waist like she’s trying to merge with me.
“Mommy, you came!”
“Careful, baby.” I laugh despite everything, steadying myself against her enthusiasm. “Mommy’s leg, remember?”
“Sorry.” She doesn’t let go, just adjusts her grip, her face pressed against my stomach. “I missed you so much. Why don’t you sleep here anymore?”
The question cuts deeper than she knows.
I crouch down - slowly, carefully, my knee protesting - so I’m at her level. Her face is open and trusting, those dark eyes that look so much like Lucas’s searching mine for answers I don’t know how to give.
“Mommy just needed some quiet time to help her leg heal.” The lie tastes sour. “But I’m right down the path, remember? You can visit me anytime.”
She considers this with that serious expression she gets, the one that makes her look forty instead of five. “Okay. But it’s not the same.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
Allana drags me to her room, chattering about everything I’ve missed.
The butterfly she saw in the garden. The song Rosa taught her.
The dream she had about flying horses. I let her voice wash over me, let her small hand pull me down the hall, let myself pretend - just for an hour - that everything is normal.
We settle on the floor with crayons scattered between us. Paper everywhere. Allana’s tongue pokes out when she concentrates, just like Lucas’s does.
I hate that I notice that.
“This one’s you,” she announces, holding up a paper covered in purple scribbles. “See? That’s your pretty hair. And that’s your leg with the bandage. And that’s me holding your hand so you don’t fall.”
My throat tightens. The drawing is crude - a five-year-old’s interpretation of reality - but I can see it. The two figures, one tall and one small, connected at the hands. The purple hair she’s given me because she knows it’s my favorite color.
“It’s beautiful, baby.”
“And this one-” She shuffles through her pile, papers rustling, and pulls out another drawing. “This one’s our family.”
Three figures. A small one with yellow curls - Allana. One in a purple dress - me. And the tall one with brown hair, lying down, blue drops falling from his eyes.
I stare at the blue drops.
“Allana… what are those?”
“That’s Daddy crying.” She says it matter-of-factly, like she’s describing the color of the sky. “He was crying in his room. I heard him.”
The air leaves my lungs.
“When, baby? When did you hear Daddy crying?”
She scrunches her nose, thinking hard, that serious expression returning. “Um… lots of nights. One time Rosa said I should let him be sad for a little bit. But another time I went in and we ate ice cream.”
Lucas. Crying. Alone in his room while I was-
I can’t process this. Can’t fit it into the picture I’ve been building of him, the careless husband who couldn’t be bothered to choose me.
Allana picks up a blue crayon and adds more drops to the drawing.
I can’t speak.
I’m looking at this drawing - this crude, beautiful, devastating drawing - and seeing my husband in a way I haven’t let myself see him in weeks. Not as the enemy. Not as the man who betrayed me. But as someone in pain.
Crying. Alone. Because of me.
Because of what we’ve become.
“Mommy?” Allana tugs my sleeve. “Why was Daddy so sad?”
I pull her into my lap, careful of my leg, and hold her close. She’s warm and solid and real, and I need that right now. Need something to anchor me while the ground shifts beneath my feet.
“Sometimes grown-ups get sad when they make mistakes, baby. And sometimes they cry because they miss people they love.”
“Does Daddy miss you?”
“I…” The word catches. Sticks in my throat like glass. “I think maybe he does.”
“I miss you too.” She burrows into my chest, her small arms wrapping around my neck. “The house feels wrong without you. Daddy doesn’t sing in the kitchen anymore. And he keeps looking at your picture on his desk.”
I close my eyes. The picture on his desk. Our wedding photo. I’d forgotten it was even there.
“Are you gonna come home, Mommy?”
The question hangs in the air between us. Heavy. Impossible.
“We’ll see, sweetheart. We’ll see.”
We hang her drawings on the refrigerator - all of them, even the one with the blue tears. Allana insists on using the good magnets, the ones shaped like horses that she picked out herself. She makes me promise to come back tomorrow, and the day after, and every day forever.
I promise. Even though I don’t know what forever looks like anymore.
I’m heading for the door, my crutches tucked under my arms, when Rosa catches my arm.
“Mrs. Delilah.” Her voice is low, careful. “Can I tell you something?”
I pause. Rosa’s face is serious - more serious than I’ve seen it in years. Something is wrong. Or something has changed.
“Of course, Rosa.”
She glances around the kitchen, toward the hallway, making sure we’re alone. Then she lowers her voice even further.
“This morning. I heard Mr. Lucas talking to that woman. The one who was staying here.”
My stomach tightens. “What did he say?”
“I couldn’t hear everything. But I think she was trying to seduce him.”
The words land like a slap. Trying to seduce him. Of course she was. Of course that was always her plan, and I saw it, and nobody believed me-
“He was very angry,” Rosa continues. “He pushed her away. Told her she was delusional.”
Wait.
“And then he said-” Rosa pauses, making sure she has the words right. Her English is perfect, but she’s careful with this. Deliberate. “He said, ‘I would never buy a necklace for anyone who isn’t my wife.’”
I stand very still.
The necklace. The gold necklace I found in his office. The one that sent me spiraling, that confirmed everything I feared-
“Then he fired her.” Rosa’s voice is firm now. “Told her to leave and never come back. He said she planted the necklace herself. To make you think he was cheating.”
The floor tilts beneath me.
She planted it. Aimie planted it. Put it in his office where I would find it, where it would look like proof, where it would destroy us-
Down the hall, the front door opens. Then his footsteps.
Lucas.
I can’t see him right now. Can’t process this, can’t process Rosa’s words and Allana’s drawings and the image of him crying alone while I was convinced he didn’t care-
I slip out the back door before he can see me. Walking fast despite my leg’s protests, despite the ache that shoots through me with every step.
But halfway to the cottage, I catch myself.
I’m smiling.
I don’t know why. I don’t know what this changes. The divorce papers are still waiting. The weeks of neglect are still real. Aimie’s manipulation doesn’t erase his choices, doesn’t excuse the way he looked at me in that meeting room, doesn’t fix everything that’s broken between us.
But he didn’t buy the necklace.
He fired her.
He chose me.
Too late. Probably too late. Almost certainly too late.
But the smile stays on my face the whole way home.