“I don’t know what to do,” Jeanette whispers. “I watched Immigration officers take her mother in the middle of the night. Am I supposed to just call the cops? Will they take her to her mother? Will she go into the system?”

“It’s not your responsibility.”

“How can you say that?” she says. “You’re an immigrant.”

Her mother runs her tongue over her teeth and stares.

“What?” Jeanette says. “Do you ever think about how Cubans get all this special treatment, like literally you step on US ground and you have legal status. It’s just so—”

“Wet foot, dry foot policy? That’s going to end any day now.”

“Mom, that’s not even the point. Don’t you think it’s your responsibility to give a shit about other people?”

Her mother glares at her. “And what, exactly, do you think I’m doing right now?” she says. “Giving a shit about you.”

As a child, Jeanette used to ask her about Cuba. Her father had a whole repertoire about winding colonial streets, about the most beautiful beaches in the entire world, about the magic of sitting on the Malecón watching the waves crash. He talked about his parents, his siblings, his whole past. He drew a mythology so enchanting, Jeanette hadn’t understood why her mother never said a word and would almost snap if she asked about her past. Jeanette had never even spoken to her maternal grandmother in Cuba. And even as a child, Jeanette understood that another narrative she couldn’t access had shaped her life. She didn’t have the vocabulary to say, I want to know who I am, so I need to know who you’ve been.

Her mother sweeps crumbs off the table into her hand. “Really, you should wipe this table every time you use it,” she says.

“I do. Are you ever going to let me talk to my grandmother? Because lately I’ve been thinking—”

Her mother raises her hands and shakes her head. A look Jeanette has grown accustomed to. “Call the cops. That’s what they’re there for. To figure this stuff out. To help.”

“I’m just—I’m waiting to see if someone comes for Ana.”

“The cops will say you kidnapped her. For all you know, there is a missing child report.”

“Someone has to come for her. Her mother wouldn’t just abandon her. She’ll call the babysitter. The babysitter will say she dropped her off. Someone will come for her. I’ve been watching out the window. I put a note on her door. I will know when they come.”

“Jeanette. This is not a game. You’re on probation. You really want to mess everything up again?”