Things with Erika have pretty much remained the way they used to be, but I still find comfort in her that no one else—not my parents, not Jorge, and not my friends—is able to give me. She always seems to be there, always willing to work longer shifts, or help with restocking, or take over the register. There’s something about her that feels familiar and safe, and lately, not many things feel that way.

It’s on a slow Sunday afternoon in late June, when we’re standing behind the counter together, that she turns toward me and says, “It’ll get better, you know?”

I’m not sure what to say. Coming from anyone else, hearing this would’ve made me angry. When my parents’ friends have shown up at the bodega telling me that I’ll be okay, that my parents will be okay, that one day we’ll look back and understand why things had to be this way, it has taken all my strength to thank them and hold back my anger long enough for them to leave the bodega. But this time, when Erika says it, I want to believe it.

She looks down. It could just be the light, but I’m pretty sure she’s blushing. “My dad got sent back to El Salvador when I was three.”

“Erika, I—I had no idea.”

She shrugs. “I don’t even remember losing him, but my mom does, and that’s what she said when I told her about your family—that it’ll get better.”

I’m not sure how long we stand there in silence. The bell at the front door rings as a customer walks in and heads straight for the back of the bodega, and still, Erika and I remain frozen. I breathe quietly, realizing how selfish I must seem to her. These past few months, all I’ve done is talk about my family, and I’ve never even bothered to ask about hers.

“Have you seen your dad since he was deported?” I ask.

Slowly, she shakes her head. “He couldn’t stay in El Salvador for long. There were people who had threatened to kill him if he ever went back, so he had to go to Canada instead and ask for asylum. My mom used to tell me that, one day, we were gonna drive up there. We were going to meet him somewhere near the border and hug him again. But then he started calling less and less. For two years, he didn’t have the guts to tell us that he had started a new family, until one day he finally admitted it to my mom, and now we barely talk about him anymore.”