We Will Find You

The Supervisor

Housekeeping was super busy today. The hotel was full and we needed all team members on deck. I was getting ready to go help make beds when she walked into my office like she’d just escaped something. Not a fire. Not a car crash. Something quieter, but just as devastating. Her eyes scanned the room like she wasn’t sure if it was safe to speak. Her hand trembled as she held out the letter, the paper soft and warped from tears. I could see the government seal before I even touched it.

She tried to explain, but her Spanish was fast and panicked, and my Spanish was slow and clumsy. I caught fragments—“finalizada,” “trabajo,” “no entiendo.” I nodded, trying to reassure her, but I was already reaching for the letter.

It was real. Official. Cold.

Her status had been terminated.

Not expired. Not denied. Terminated.

She still had a valid work visa. She hadn’t missed a deadline or broken a rule. She was still showing up every morning, folding sheets, scrubbing floors, smiling at guests who didn’t know her name. However, the letter stated that she no longer belonged. She had worked in the United States for three years, paid taxes, and kept her paperwork up to date. She still didn’t speak English well, but that is no reason to terminate her status.

I read it twice. Then a third time. The language was ridiculous from the first line…

“It’s time for you to leave the United States.”

To the last line…

“We are the government, and we will find you.”

I looked up. She was watching me, waiting for a reaction. I didn’t know what to say. I had a desk, a title, and a phone that could call someone to help, but none of that felt useful. Not against a system that had already decided she was a threat.

I offered her a chair. Water. A moment to breathe. She sat, clutching her purse like it might be taken next.

I started making calls. Legal aid. Immigration attorneys. Advocacy groups. I left voicemails, sent emails, begged for callbacks. I didn’t know what else to do. I was not allowed to give her any advice, but I was going to do my best to find someone who could.

She didn’t cry again. She just sat there, staring at the floor, as if waiting for someone to come through the door and take her away.

And I kept thinking about that line.

“We will find you.”

What kind of government writes that to a woman who’s just trying to survive?

What kind of country lets fear be the first language spoken?

The Housekeeper’s Internal Monologue

I shouldn’t be here.

I shouldn’t be in this office, holding this letter, crying in front of a woman whose name I barely know. I practiced the words last night. I even wrote them down. “Mi estatus fue revocado.” “No entiendo.” “Ayúdame.” But now they come out broken. Fast. Wet. I sound like a child.

She’s kind. Her eyes are kind. She takes the letter from me like it’s fragile. Like I’m fragile.

I watch her read. Her lips move silently. Her eyebrows lift. She reads it again. I know the last line is coming. I saw it last night. I read it ten times. I thought maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe it was a joke.

“We are the government, and we will find you.”

I want to disappear.

I want to be invisible. I want to go back to folding sheets and scrubbing floors and smiling at guests who don’t really see me. I want to be the woman who works hard, stays quiet, and never causes trouble.

But I am in trouble now.

I am a problem. A file. A barcode. A name on a list.

I think about my daughter. She’s in school right now, learning English faster than I ever could. She wants to be a nurse. She wants to help people. I told her this country was safe. I told her we were safe.

I lied.

The woman sitting behind the desk is making calls. Her voice is calm, but her fingers move fast. She’s trying. I can see that. She’s trying to help. But I know how this works. I’ve seen it before. A letter. A knock. A van. A silence. But in today’s United States, it is different. I could be separated from my daughter, I could end up in prison in a country I don’t know.

I breathe slowly. I count in Spanish. Uno. Dos. Tres. Cuatro.

I will not cry again.

I will not run.

I will not disappear.

They may find me. But I will not make it easy.

I took out a note card a friend had given me last night in jest, but it does make sense.

Survival Guide: How to Decode Threatening Government Letters While Crying in Your Supervisor’s Office

1. Step One: Don’t Panic (Yet). You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to shake. But don’t run. Running makes their job easier.

2. Step Two: Find a Human. Preferably one with a desk, a title, and a working phone. Bonus points if they have empathy and snacks.

3. Step Three: Translate the Threat. “We will find you” is not a legal term. It’s intimidation. It’s theater. But it still means they’re coming.

4. Step Four: Lawyer Up. Not the kind from TV. The kind who knows immigration law and doesn’t flinch when the word “terminated” shows up.

5. Step Five: Document Everything. The letter. The tears. The time. The place. The people who helped. The ones who didn’t.

6. Step Six: Don’t Disappear. Visibility is power. Fear thrives in silence. Speak. Show up. Be seen.

I am not a criminal

I am not a file.

I am not a barcode.

I am a mother.

I am a worker.

I am here.

And I will not make it easy.