Border Love | Amor de Frontera
"An immigration lawyer and her client become something more when the case ends and real life begins"
Border Love
Amor de Frontera
I wasn't supposed to fall in love with a client. Ethics 101.
But Camila wasn't just any client. She was the bravest woman I'd ever met.
"Tell me your story," I said on our first meeting.
"Which part? The part where I walked through the desert with my daughter? The part where we were detained? Or the part where I lost hope?"
"All of it."
Her case took two years. Two years of paperwork, court dates, appeals. Two years of fighting for her right to stay, her right to exist, her right to matter.
"You believe in me," she said once, surprised.
"It's my job."
"No. Other lawyers do their jobs. You fight like it's personal."
It was. More than I could admit.
The night she won her case, she came to my office.
"It's over," I said. "You're safe. You can stay."
"Because of you."
"Because of your strength. I just did the paperwork."
"Mentirosa." She stepped closer. "You did so much more."
"We can't," I said when she kissed me.
"Why not? The case is closed."
"You were my client."
"I was. Now I'm just a woman who owes you everything and wants to give you something in return."
"That's not how—"
"I know. This isn't gratitude." She cupped my face. "This is something I've felt since the first day, when you looked at me like I was a person instead of a case number."
We dated carefully, quietly. Too many eyes watched—colleagues, critics, people who'd use any excuse to question my work.
"I don't care what they say," she told me.
"I care what they say about you."
"Let them talk. I survived worse than gossip."
She was right. She'd survived the unsurvivable. What was judgment compared to that?
"Move in with me," I said. "You and your daughter. My house is too big for one person."
"You're asking us to live with you?"
"I'm asking you to build something with me. A home. A family. A life."
Her daughter—six now, bright and resilient—looked up at us.
"Can I have my own room?"
"The biggest one."
"Then yes."
Camila's yes came later, in our kitchen, after her daughter was asleep.
"Yes to everything," she said. "Yes to the house, the life, the love. Yes to all of it."
"I wasn't sure you'd say that."
"I walked through a desert for a better life." She kissed me. "I'd walk through a thousand deserts for this."
We married when her green card came through—a celebration of love and survival and the hope that carried us both.
"Mami looks happy," her daughter said at the wedding.
"She is happy," I replied. "We both are."
"Good. You helped us. Now we help you."
"Help me how?"
"Not be alone anymore."
I'm not alone anymore. Our house is full—daughter, dogs, extended family on both sides. Full of noise and chaos and more love than I ever thought possible.
"No regrets?" Camila asks sometimes.
"Only that I didn't meet you sooner."
"The timing was perfect. You found me when I needed you most."
Border love—where hope crosses every line, and home is found in unexpected arms.