When we sit down at the table, however, I realize these are not tacos like the ones Ma would make. Amy used hard-shell tortillas, ground meat, lettuce, and cheddar cheese. Fake tacos, my mom would call them.

“Is everything okay?” Amy asks Sophie right away. My sister is having a harder time hiding her disappointment than I am.

“Yes,” I answer quickly, before Sophie can say anything. “These look amazing.”

I pick up a taco and do my best to pretend that I’m enjoying it. I give my sister a look that only she will understand, begging her to do the same, and she takes a bite out of her own taco.

With a sideways glance at Amy, I realize she’s loving the tacos so much that she’s literally licking her fingers. I can’t imagine any of this is easy for her, but she opened the doors of her home to Sophie and me, she welcomed us without a word of complaint, and she even made a dinner she thought we would like. She really is trying her best, and I could not be any more grateful to her for that.

The rest of the weekend feels painfully slow.

Ellie cries all night on Saturday. Maybe she knows something is different. Even though she’s only a few months old, she can probably tell that her routine has been disrupted, and she doesn’t like it. Either way, I don’t think anyone in the apartment gets any sleep. Sophie and I don’t leave our room, but we lie side by side on the air mattress, wide awake and staring at the ceiling, while we listen to endless wailing and Jorge’s and Amy’s desperate attempts to get the baby to quiet down.

Even after all that, Ellie seems to be in a bad mood all day on Sunday—probably from lack of sleep—and, by extension, Amy’s in a bad mood as well.

The only bit of good news comes when Ma calls in the middle of the day, saying that she’s now allowed to have visitors, but since she’s out in Buffalo, we’ll have to wait until next weekend for Uncle Jorge to be able to drive us there.

We have chicken and broccoli for dinner that night, which again, is impossible not to compare to Ma’s cooking. I can’t help but miss the salsa, and the lime, and all the things Ma will never serve dinner without.

By Monday morning, a part of me is glad to have to go to school. The second I walk through the front doors, I’m no longer Mateo, the kid whose parents might be getting deported. I’m no longer the kid who has to look after his seven-year-old sister, or the one who doesn’t even have a permanent home anymore.