I never thought I’d be leaving this place. In the back of my mind, I pictured my parents growing old in this apartment, Sophie and me coming back to visit as adults. It’s always been so… ours. It’s the only home I’ve ever known.

“The rent is due next week,” I say under my breath.

Behind me, the wooden floors creak as Uncle Jorge shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “We’ll make sure it’s paid. You don’t have to say goodbye to the apartment just yet. We can hold on to it for as long as it takes, until we find out if your parents will be allowed to stay.”

I nod slowly, and then I turn around. Suddenly, all I want is to get out of here, and I’m not sure how it happened—how I went from never wanting to leave to desperately needing to get out.

Sophie is already waiting by the door. I go join her and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Are you ready to go?”

She nods, but her face doesn’t give anything away. I’m starting to worry that she’s losing a part of herself. She barely looks like the girl from the photos on the wall—the smiling, carefree girl she used to be. Then again, I probably don’t look the same, either. Maybe both of us have changed for good.

I hold her hand tight as we walk down the stairs of our building. I hope my firm grip will tell her all the things I’m not strong enough to say right now—that I’m here for her, that we’re in this together, that we’re gonna be okay. That despite everything that’s happened, she’s allowed to be a child, to not have to worry, because there’s someone here to take care of her.

The taxi ride to Jorge’s apartment is mostly silent. He lives on the edge of the West Village, not far from our own place. We could’ve walked, if it wasn’t for our heavy suitcases.

Growing up, Uncle Jorge used to live in the same building as us. He’s never talked much about his childhood, but I do know his family came to New York from Puerto Rico a long time ago. His mom passed away when he was young, so it was his grandmother, Doña Alba, who raised him, but she was always so sick. When I try to remember her, all that comes to my mind is coughing—lots and lots of coughing. There came a point where she just couldn’t take care of Jorge anymore. She couldn’t keep track of where he went after school—or if he was even going to school at all—and he got involved with Los Verdes.