Everything that happens next feels like a blur. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or the long drive, or the anxiety swelling up in my chest, but I can barely keep track of what’s going on. One second we’re walking through the front doors of the building, and the next we’re putting all our belongings back in our pockets after walking through metal detectors. I’m vaguely aware of following a group of people down a long hallway, and then, all of a sudden, I find myself sitting in a room next to Sophie and Uncle Jorge, but I can’t even remember walking in here.

Looking around, I see that we’re most definitely not alone. The room is large, with many rectangular tables just like ours, and the nervous chatter of dozens of people fills the air around us.

A loud buzzing sound comes from somewhere overhead, and women begin walking in, one by one. When Ma appears, it takes me a second to realize it’s her. She looks different, but not necessarily in the ways that I would’ve expected. I thought she would look tired, or frightened, or underfed, but no. She looks calm, dignified. She walks with her back straight and her face serious. That’s what it must be—she looks robotic somehow. There’s no light in her eyes, no trace of a smile on her lips.

The second she sees us, all of that changes. Even from far away, I notice how her chest deflates as she lets out her breath. I can tell her legs have started shaking, and that it’s taking all of her effort to stop herself from running toward us.

“Mijos,” she says, wrapping both Sophie and me in an embrace. I smell her hair, feel the pressure of her hands on my back, and suddenly, everything is okay. My sister and I are exactly where we need to be. But then we hear a guard clearing his throat behind us, and we have to break away from her.

“How are you feeling, Ma?” Sophie asks before we’ve even taken our seats. Ma and Sophie sit on one side of the table, and Jorge and I take the chairs facing them.

“I’m okay, mi nena,” Ma answers. “Just hanging in there.”

She has never been the type of mom who wears a lot of makeup or cares much about her appearance, but sitting here with her hair dirty and her skin dry, she looks so different from the person I see in my mind when I think of her.

“What’s it like here?” I ask, looking over my shoulder. For a so-called detention facility, this place looks and feels a lot like a prison.

“It’s…” Ma begins, but she doesn’t finish. “I just hope to be out of here soon.”