“Your mom’s not going anywhere,” I say, and then realize that I shouldn’t make promises I can’t keep. Cesar and his mom live with a daily fear I can’t even begin to contemplate, a fear I don’t even try on for size while I’m here and then leave behind. Rita, the head of RRC, told me recently that many of the moms, even the immigrants here legally, have started forgoing free lunches at school and SNAP benefits for their kids because they’re scared they’ll be targeted by ICE and deported if they use government resources. It’s horrifying to think about the level of terror they must feel to be giving up needed meals for toddlers.

I’ve learned to compartmentalize my time with Cesar and to not think in comparative terms when I learn horrible stuff like that. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to go back home to my normal life, to comfort and Cristof-prepped meals. Instead, I do what I can to help—volunteer my time, bring bulk snacks from Costco, encourage my parents to donate to the RRC. No good can come from my dwelling on the giant divide between Cesar’s life and mine.

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t stay in your house with you or anything. My mom said that wouldn’t be possible. I asked. I was like, But Chlo has a screening room! But she wants me to keep seeing you, no matter what. She says you’ll make sure I go to college one day.” I almost laugh—I should not be responsible for helping anyone get into college. The only reason why I’m able to help Cesar with his homework is because he’s only in first grade. Still, I’m all in. “So what do you think?”

He is staring at me, waiting for my answer. I sweep the hair out of his eyes.

“Of course. I’m like a bad rash, little dude.” I blink back tears, flash him my biggest smile to hide how both honored and heartbroken I am. Cesar should be thinking about Legos and, just on the night before it, his spelling test, and even maybe those little jerks who tease him. He should not be worrying about losing his only parent or counting his people for the long run.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means you couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.” I resist the urge to pull him into my lap. I don’t want to frighten him with my affection.

“I had a bad rash once,” Cesar says, looking up at me, his eyebrow tented, like in a cartoon. “But it went away after like two weeks.”

—