The landlord gave us until noon today to be completely out of the apartment. There isn’t even much left to do. Over the last few weeks, we sold all the furniture online. We packed as many of our things as we could fit into two suitcases and threw out the rest. Still, I left behind a few things on purpose, just so we would have an excuse to come back one last time.

It seemed like a good idea then—coming back for a final goodbye—but now I’m not so sure. As I look at the bare walls, all I see in my mind are the pictures that used to hang there. Everything looks so wrong. I desperately want to bring back the couch, the TV, the dinner table, the magnets on the fridge. I want to turn this into the home it used to be, but I can’t. My ma and pa are really, truly gone. The life we used to have—the laughter, and the tears, and the long conversations we shared in this apartment—are all in the past now, and there’s no way to bring any of that back.

I head into what used to be my bedroom and Sophie’s. We had to tear down the fake wall that divided the master bedroom in two before we handed over the apartment, so now it looks nothing like it used to. All of my pictures, Playbills, and posters are also gone, stored away until we find a home we can call ours again.

I go straight for the closet and grab the bag I left in there, which has a few things I salvaged from the trash pile at the last minute—Ma’s recipe book, and drawings Sophie made when she was younger, and Pa’s old toolbox. They’re things we have no use for but that I just couldn’t throw out.

Sophie grabs the second bag, where she put some of the coloring books she couldn’t fit into her suitcases, and then we do a final sweep of the apartment to make sure we aren’t leaving anything behind.

“Are you ready?” I ask Sophie as we go back to stand by the front door.

She turns toward the empty living room. Staring at her face from an angle, I see a much older girl. She seems to have aged several years in the weeks since our parents were sent back to Mexico. I think it might just be her eyes—as she stares out at her empty home, there’s an experienced look in them that doesn’t belong to a seven-year-old.

“Yeah,” she says, and there’s no hesitation in her voice. “I’m ready.”