She sighs with relief and then lapses into Urdu, nervously chatting, telling me to remember to water the plants, to check Kamal’s math homework as he sometimes skips problems, watch for red around his ears since he’s prone to infections. She stops. “I am so sorry, Lidia. I just, sometimes, I need to use my mother tongue.”

“Of course,” Lidia says softly.

We pause, awkward. I can see Lidia glancing up at the clock on the wall. She warned me that they may not let us see each other for more than a half hour, especially if there’s a long line. And judging from the people squeezed into folding chairs and pressing close to the scratched plastic divider, they could cut us off soon. So Lidia fills us in on the status of the case—she’s filed for a reprieve to get Ammi out; she’s explained that this is an error since we are appealing, and that Ammi has the resources to post bond.

“Sadia, we need to talk about who you’ve authorized to watch the kids.”

Now my mother truly looks small, as if she’s shrinking into the folds of her cotton top.

“I thought it was Maria Auntie,” I whisper.

Lidia and Ammi exchange looks.

“Maria is very sorry,” Lidia says, “but when I explained that she has to go to court to enforce the guardianship, she rescinded. Her daughter is looking at a misdemeanor. Maria’s afraid they’ll use it as an excuse to deport them too.”

“She got scared,” Ammi says. “The raid, it spooked her.”

Of course. I always knew they were undocumented, but it never meant anything before. Half the people in our building might not have their papers in order. But it’s like everything else these days—the raids and the vans and the men in black vests; the neighbor who told me about how ICE showed up at her nephew’s door on the day of his graduation—our world is unraveling so fast. All the feints and exhausting choices we make, the doctors we don’t go to, the mail we don’t answer, just to stay a step ahead, it’s all vanishing. We don’t exist. We’re not allowed to exist. Not these days.

“I can take care of my brother!” I say hotly. “I do it all the time.”

“Legally not until you’re eighteen.”

“Rania can take care of most things.” She turns to me. “You know where I keep the bank card. We’re paid up on the rent through June. Utilities too. And I have enough for rent through the summer.” She says this proudly.

“Is there anyone else?”

She is leaning forward, eyes blazing. “Rania, you need to find your uncle. He can sign as family.”

This doesn’t make sense. My family is back in Pakistan. They disowned her after her marriage.

“My uncle? You told me—”