When the judge is done asking Pa about me and Sophie, both Mr. Wilkins and the ICE lawyer take turns asking Pa questions. I notice the way he starts sweating as soon as Mr. Gordon begins to ask for more details about why he overstayed his tourist visa. He does his best to remain composed, and he manages to do it pretty well. He keeps his expression neutral, his tone always measured and polite, and I struggle a bit as I watch Pa turn into this artificial version of himself. I wish I could make them see the real him—the father that carries Sophie on his shoulders, the friend who’s always there to give advice, the neighbor that’s always willing to help.

It feels as though one second I’m sitting here, watching Pa answer questions about why he deserves to stay in the US, and the next, everyone in the room is looking at me.

I blink, not really sure what’s going on. Did they say my name? Am I supposed to go on the stand now? It seems unlikely to me that I would’ve missed something like that, but judging by the fact that even the lawyers and my dad have turned to face me, I’m guessing that’s what’s happening.

“Go on,” Uncle Jorge whispers in my ear, giving me a small pat on the shoulder. “You can do this.”

I get up from my chair and begin to take small steps closer to the judge. My legs feel like jelly. I’m afraid they’re going to collapse under my weight any second, but they manage to carry me until I reach the judge’s desk, and I take a seat right beside it.

As I lift my gaze to face the room, I start feeling sweaty. The fact that I’m wearing a suit doesn’t help. I feel stifled, like I’m being choked. Pa took me to Canal Street a few years ago to buy this suit, just so I had something to wear to baptisms and first communions, but I’ve grown quite a bit since then, and now it’s several sizes too small. I wish more than anything that I could at least loosen up a button, but I keep my hands firmly on my lap, waiting for the first question to come.

“Can you please state your full name for the court?” the judge asks me. I don’t know if I’m only imagining it, but I’m pretty sure her voice sounds a bit softer now that she’s talking to me and not my dad.

“Mateo Garcia.”

“Please stand and raise your right hand.”

I do as I’m told.

“Do you swear that the statement you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“I do.”