Tracy Marie Taylor

The apartment is quiet except for the hum of our ancient AC unit. 
Kevin's reviewing patient notes at the kitchen table. 
I'm reviewing a case file on the couch. 

Normal Tuesday night in our new normal. 
The smell of café cubano still lingering from dinner, that ritual we cling to like an anchor in rough seas. 

Then Kevin looks up from his work. 
"I saw something today," he says. 
"ICE hit a bunch of street vendors in L.A. Mexican families. A taquería got shut down—on Father's Day." 

I don't look up right away. 
"Yeah, I read that. No warning. Just swept in." 

Kevin sets down his pen. 
"People are scared to leave their houses. And with the Med-Cal cuts? They're scared to go to the doctor, too." 

I close my file. Look at him. 
"It's cruel. They contribute everything. Keep the farms running. Fill the classrooms, the hospitals. But politically, they're invisible." 

The weight of it settles between us—how many families wake up each morning not knowing if this will be the day their world splits apart. 

I pause. Reach for his hand. 
"I fight for people who aren't supposed to be here. That doesn't stop just because we crossed state lines." 

Kevin squeezes back. 
"I know. That's why I love you." 

We sit quiet for a while. 
Both of us thinking about what comes next. 
How many other families are making impossible choices. 
How many can't afford to run like we did. 

But even as we talk about other people's struggles, I can feel the weight of our own pressing down like humidity before a storm. 
Because what happened to us in Florida—the law that made our love illegal, our dreams impossible—it's spreading. 
Like a fever that doesn't break. 

I think about my grandmother's hands, how she used to say, "Mijo, en este país, siempre hay que luchar"—in this country, you always have to fight. 
She meant it about leaving Cuba, about starting over. 
But the fighting never stops, does it? 
It just changes shape. 
Changes states. 

But even as we talk about other people's struggles, I can feel the weight of our own pressing down like humidity before a storm. 
Because what happened to us in Florida—the law that made our love illegal, our dreams impossible—it could spread to other places too. 
The fear sits with us like an uninvited guest. 

I stand up, pace to the window. 
Look out at the California street where we've built our temporary peace. 
But even here, I can feel it—the fragility. 
The knowledge that safety is just a legislature away from disappearing. 

"We're the lucky ones," I say finally. 
"We had savings. Jobs that could transfer. No kids to uproot." 

Kevin nods. 
"For now." 

For now. 
Those two words carry everything—hope and fear wrapped together like my grandmother's pasteles, sweet and bitter in the same bite. 

We're safe tonight. 
But tomorrow? 
Next year? 
When our child asks why they've never met their abuelos, what do we say? 
That love wasn't enough? 
That geography determined their family tree? 

I return to the couch. 
Take Kevin's hand again. 
"Whatever comes next," I say, "we face it together." 

He squeezes back. 
"Always." 

But as we sit there in our California sanctuary, I can't shake the feeling that we're not building a life—we're buying time. 
And time, like everything else in this country, comes with a price we might not always be able to pay.