But Sophie doesn’t let go. She doesn’t loosen her grip around me. And in that moment, it all becomes so clear to me. We can’t stay here. If I can barely protect Sophie from a cockroach, how will I take care of her if she gets sick, or if we run out of money, or if anything unexpected happens? How will I protect her if Child Protective Services comes knocking on our door again and tries to take her away?

We stand there for I don’t know how long, until we finally realize that we have to do something about this mess. I grab stuff from the kitchen to clean the floor and my shoe, and then Sophie turns on the TV. Pasiones is about to start, but I have something more important to do. I pick up my phone and call Uncle Jorge’s cell.

He answers at the first ring. “Hello?”

“I’ve thought about it,” I say slowly.

“Y-you have?” He sounds sleepy, and I wonder if he was already in bed. “So you’ll come stay with me and Amy?”

“Yes,” I say, and for the first time, there is no doubt in my mind that this is the right thing to do. “We need your help. We need you.”

10

UNCLE JORGE COMES TO PICK US UP at noon on Saturday. Sophie and I packed our bags last night with all the essentials—clothes, and shoes, and towels, and everything else we think might be important to have at Uncle Jorge’s. At the last minute, Sophie also tries to bring along all of her coloring books and half a dozen stuffed animals, but in the end her suitcase won’t close, so she’s forced to make difficult decisions.

Once our bags are waiting by the door, I turn to look at the apartment—at the home my parents built. I look at the round dinner table, which has stains and scratches and chipped edges from years of holding heavy dinner plates, and hot cups of tea, and hours upon hours of conversation. I look at the photos on the wall of the living room, which show all of our best moments—me as a kid feeding the ducks in Central Park, Sophie as a little pink ball on the day she was born, my parents looking young and relaxed somewhere in Brooklyn, and a photo of all four of us grinning on the Coney Island Boardwalk. When I look at the small living space, I think of the day Pa ran into the apartment with a big smile on his face, saying he had found a couch on the sidewalk that was much better than the one we had. I remember how much he and Jorge struggled to get it through the front door, and how we all sat down to watch TV on our new couch that night.