“Sophie,” she says. “Sophie, ¿cómo estás, mi niña?”

“I’m okay, Mami,” my sister replies. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, mija. So much,” Ma answers. “¿Y tú, Mateo? How are you?”

I honestly don’t know what to say. I want to say how scared I’ve been, how even the smallest sounds out in the hallway bring panic to the deepest part of my stomach as I imagine Child Protective Services standing outside our door. I want to say that watching Pasiones without her just isn’t the same, that I’ve barely been sleeping, that the sound of Sophie’s soft sobbing keeps ringing in my ears every night, even hours after she’s fallen asleep. I also want to tell her that I need her and Pa to come back because even though I’ve tried, I can’t picture a future without them here.

Instead of saying those things, I choose to lie. “I’m all right, Ma. How are you?”

She also stays silent for a long time, but I imagine all the things she wants to say. She must want to tell us about the detention center in Buffalo—how miserable it is, how much she misses her home. She must want to tell us about the other women there, how they’ve all been holding their breath since they were first detained, to the point that the air around them feels old and still. She must want to say how hard it’s been to be away from Pa, how empty life feels without having Sophie and me to take care of. But we’ve always been more similar than either of us cares to admit. She also chooses to lie. “Estoy bien,” she says. “Have you talked to your dad?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, we have. He called us yesterday.”

“What did he say?”

I consider lying about this as well. I don’t want to put the wrong ideas in her mind, but then I realize this is one thing I can’t lie about. “He said he’s thinking about voluntary departure. Have—have you thought about that?”

“Some of the women here have mentioned it, but I don’t really understand what it means. Everyone has told me not to sign anything, not to answer questions if my lawyer’s not there, because sometimes they do that—they get you to sign papers you don’t understand, and all of a sudden you’ve given up your chance to fight.”

“What about your lawyer?” Sophie asks, and I turn sharply toward her. Suddenly, it hits me that she’s a part of this conversation—that she has to worry about immigration hurdles and lawyers. She’s way too young to have concerns like these, but there’s nothing I can do to protect her from them. “Has he said anything?”