“That’s bs! I remember! We packed really fast!”

Lidia moves closer, soothing. “Darling, I know. But your mother. She has her own ideas…”

No kidding. Ammi always has to do things her way. When I was younger, she’d show up to parent-teacher conferences, all decked out with blue eye shadow and dangling silver earrings, and insist that I be given harder books to read, extra math homework. She’d make sure the teacher knew that she’d almost finished her MPhil. After, she’d complain that the teacher seemed no more educated than a cashier, and she could do a better job teaching that class. I’d shrink inside. Why did a conference about me have to be about her? Her lousy jobs, driving an Uber, has not smoothed down her pride, not one bit.

“But why now?”

“A few weeks ago we found out her stay had been denied. I don’t think she was expecting that.”

The appeal: It’s hung over us for a few years, ever since she was denied asylum in the first go-round. Those fat folders my mother keeps locked in a closet and pulls out now and then, spreading them out on the dining table. Every time I’d ask her about it, she’d give me a sad smile and say, “I worry about the past. And you the future. That’s your job.”

Lidia continues, “Now this raid. They weren’t even looking for her. But she was just coming home—”

“They weren’t?” I feel faint. Collateral. That’s what they said over the walkie-talkie. Ammi was an extra prize. “Can’t you just tell them that she wasn’t supposed to be taken?”

Lidia nods, tired. “We have to go before a judge. Explain that she’s on appeal.”

“How long will that take?” I ask. “And what about me? And Kamal?”

“You’re part of your mother’s asylum case. We do have a separate juvenile-immigrant-status file for you too.”

“So let’s use that!”

“Rania, slow down. We’re waiting on that as well. Let’s start where we are. The situation with DACA for undocumented children like you is even worse. I’m sure you’ve heard the news—”

She’s interrupted by a knock on the door and Lidia’s assistant, Sylvie, pops her head in. Behind her, phones ring, people talk. It was more crowded than usual when I picked my way through Lidia’s office. “I have Mr. Chan on the line,” Sylvie says. “He says they didn’t accept the job verification he uploaded and the deadline is today—”

Lidia sighs and turns back to me. “I’m so sorry. I’m going to have to take this. I’m helping out one of our partners who usually takes these cases.”

“Wait, my mother!” I cry. Only my mother matters. Her case. Ours. Me.

“Just tell him I’ll call back in five,” Lidia says to her assistant.