Boston Immigration Lawyer

Hawa Law represents the most desperate cases.

Somali refugees facing deportation. Family reunification denied. The ones everyone else gave up on. She's been fighting for twenty years.

My mother's visa is expiring.

"Overstayed by six months?" She reviews the file. Fifty-four years old. Two hundred and forty-five pounds of legal authority. Ebony skin, sharp suit, the confidence of a courtroom veteran. "This is complicated."

"Can you help?"

"I can try." She makes notes. "But I need everything. Every document. Every relationship. Every reason she should stay."

"Whatever it takes."

"Those are dangerous words." She looks up. "I charge by the hour. Cases like this take hundreds."

"She's my mother."

"Then we have something in common." She closes the file. "My mother faced deportation in 1995. A lawyer saved her. That's why I do this."

She works miracles.

Files motions, gathers evidence, prepares arguments. My mother's case transforms from hopeless to promising.

"You're incredible," I tell her one late night.

"I'm thorough." She keeps typing. "The law rewards details. I provide them."

"But this late? This hard?"

"Every case is someone's mother. Someone's family." She finally stops. "I can't save everyone. But I can try."

I start helping.

Organizing documents, making copies, bringing dinner when she works late. We fall into a rhythm.

"You don't have to do this," she says.

"You don't have to help my mother."

"That's my job."

"And this is mine." I set down coffee. "Taking care of the person taking care of us."

"Ilaahay." She shakes her head. "I'm a lawyer. Not a charity case."

"You're a woman who gives everything to everyone else." I sit across from her. "When's the last time someone gave to you?"

She doesn't answer.

"My husband left because I worked too much."

We're in her office at midnight. The city sleeps outside.

"Twelve years ago. Said I loved strangers more than him. He was probably right." She stares at her degrees on the wall. "I've saved hundreds of families. Lost my own."

"That's not a fair trade."

"Life isn't fair. Immigration isn't fair. I make things slightly less unfair." She looks at me. "Your mother will stay. I promise."

"And you?"

"I'll stay too. In this office. Fighting. Alone."

"You don't have to be alone."

"Come to my apartment."

We've won the case. My mother has her visa. The champagne is cheap but the victory is priceless.

"I don't celebrate with clients," she says.

"I'm not your client anymore." I hold her gaze. "The case is closed."

"Then what are you?"

"Someone who wants to thank you properly."

I worship the lawyer.

In her apartment full of case files and legal books. Her body is justice—ebony curves, heavy breasts, the strength of a thousand courtroom battles.

"Twelve years—" She gasps as I undress her. "I've defended everyone—never been defended—"

"Tonight I'm your advocate."

I lay her on her bed.

Among legal briefs and case notes. Her body deserves a favorable ruling.

I spread her thick thighs.

Present my argument.

"ILAAHAY!"

She screams—twelve years of isolation breaking. Her hands grip my head.

"Don't stop—" She's shaking. "Dhakhso—"

I argue for her pleasure until she comes four times.

"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—file your brief—"

I strip. She watches with those sharp eyes.

"Subhanallah—strong evidence."

"Irrefutable."

I push inside the lawyer.

She cries out.

"So full—" Her legs wrap around me. "Don't stop—"

I make my case thoroughly.

Her massive body shakes. She comes twice more.

"Ku shub—" She's begging. "Final judgment—"

I deliver my verdict inside her.

We lie among scattered case files.

"My mother wants to meet you," I tell her.

"She already did. At the hearing."

"As a lawyer." I kiss her forehead. "She wants to meet you as something else."

"Wallahi?"

"Wallahi."

One Year Later

My mother loves her.

Calls her daughter-in-law even though we're not married.

"Macaan," Hawa moans. "My best case ever."

The lawyer who saved my mother.

The woman who won my heart.

Case closed. Life ongoing.