Deportation and the Silence That Follows

It was still dark outside on that February morning in Chicago, the first week of February 2025, with the kind of cold that bites through your coat and makes you want to stay under the blanket forever. Mom was in the kitchen, boiling water for tea. The house smelled like bread and Vicks. I was half-awake, scrolling through my phone, when someone started banging on the door. Hard.

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