Jonathan Goldstein

But it was enough for me to be trusted.

And so, one cold night, a week after the shooting, I text Yamilis my photo so she could identify me through the front door's small window.

And I go over to talk.

Hi.

Since Julio and Indriani have been incarcerated, Yamilis has been taking care of their three-year-old son, her grandson.

Yamilis has been in the U.S.

since 2023, but with the shooting, she fears that she and her family have become targets, even more so targets, of ICE.

So she doesn't leave the house, not to grocery shop, not to go to work.

She keeps the blinds drawn, the lights outside, off.

She says she prays that God will just make her house invisible.

I'm with my interpreter, Eric, who's not really an interpreter, but my former office mate, who works as an immigration lawyer.

Four kids of her own, ages 9 through 14, and her three-year-old grandson, Julio and Indriani's son.

Once inside, one of the kids locks the door behind us.

Since the shooting, even though her children have opened asylum cases and social security numbers, Yamilis has kept them all home from school.

Her 14-year-old, Alejandra, attends class over video.

I ask her if her teachers know why she hasn't been in class.

I'm sorry.

Yamilis' 10-year-old son, Javier, walks over.

He has a question he wants to ask me.

Yes.