“We were starving in Mexico. It was like hitting a wall. No matter how hard I worked there were too many nights I went to sleep hungry,” she says, repeatedly checking her phone to see if her husband and her other two children are on their way. She met her husband Jose at a produce distribution center in downtown Los Angeles. They moved in and made a home.

Since election night, the Gallardo family has cut costs at home and started saving for the event of a deportation. They are trying to be mindful of how they spend money, which has been tough with three teenage boys who require plenty of food and clothing they quickly outgrow. They have cut down on afterschool activities and are looking to yard sales for shoes and clothes. They are currently looking to transfer the title of their small red sedan to a friend, just in case things become more complicated.

Sebastian left his afterschool art program because he felt it was too risky to have his mom drive him out to the West Side for art lessons. He was also concerned about the cost of gas and time away from the family.

“We all have to pitch in. As a big brother, I need to be with my brothers to make sure they feel safe,” he says.

In mid-February, Sebastian began to feel very anxious. His grades dropped. He reached out to friends facing similar situations at home, as well as his school counselor.

“I’m the oldest. I’ve been trying to keep it together for my little brothers, but I feel so overwhelmed,” he says.

His parents are concerned about his well-being, and are looking for ways to make all three of their children feel at ease. Sebastian has begun attending therapy once a week at school.

“After elections, my teacher wrote a lot of words on the board to helps us think of how we felt,” Sebastian says. “I wrote down ‘injustice’ and ‘anger,’ but right now what I feel is just fear, but also that I need to step up.”

* * *

The Mejias’ guests grab seconds at the food table. The backyard grows quiet as people sit and fill out pages in the packet, including contact sheets and asset disclosure forms.

One woman looks at another and asks if she can name her as the emergency contact.

“Claro que si, comadre. Pero solo ten en encuenta que yo tampoco tengo papeles,”says the other. Of course, comadre [a term of endearment]. But just keep in mind that I don’t have my papers either. In spite of being the godmothers for each other’s children, neither is able to list each other as a guardian on the emergency packets since both are undocumented and both face possible deportation.

Andrea Garcia, 37, who met the Mejia family through their childcare business, quietly looks over a stack of papers. She reaches for her pen and begins to make small checkmarks along the margins. Reviewing large packets and filling out forms has become second nature since her two-year-old daughter Lucia was diagnosed with a learning disability. She suffers from an undiagnosed issue with her motor skills. She looks over at her phone. It’s almost time to pick up Lucia at physical therapy. She looks back at the form that reads “Declaración de Autorización de la Persona Responsable de Menor,” a custody authorization form.

“We can’t go back to Mexico. Not now,” she says. “Lucia is starting to make progress.”

Last year, Garcia was referred to a nonprofit that works with people with developmental disabilities by Carolina Mejia, who noticed while that Lucia’s speech and physical development were not moving at the same pace as her cohorts.

“I wasn’t ready to accept it,” Garcia says. “I love my daughter, and it pains me to see her struggle. But I am so proud of her progress. She doesn’t give up and I can’t either.”

Garcia made the difficult decision to leave Mexico in 2004. Her mother had come to the U.S. nearly two decades earlier when Garcia was seven years old, and they hadn’t seen each other since. After learning that her mother was very sick, Garcia applied for a visa to take care of her, but was denied. She came to the U.S. anyway, without documentation, where she reconnected with her mother. Then, in 2014, Garcia learned that she was pregnant. She was concerned about her legal status and the uncertainty she would be passing to her child.

“It is hard to live without your documents,” she says. “Even in a place like Los Angeles, you have to be very careful. With Lucia on the way, I knew I had to be extra careful.”

On the night of the presidential election, the family stayed up to listen to the results. The panic that had grown through the course of the 2016 primaries became a real threat.

“My first thought was about Lucia’s access to healthcare. Then I began to think about my status in this country,” Garcia says. “My daughter means everything to me. She needs her mother, and she needs her treatment.

“I know what it is like to grow up away from your mother; I didn’t want that for my daughter. I have tried to fill this form out about four times. Every time I get to the section where I authorize custody, I cry and get very anxious.”

But she also doesn’t want to bring her daughter to Mexico, because she’s concerned that she wouldn’t have access to the health care she needs.

As the informal session comes to a close, people hug and make their way out. Some stay behind to pack to-go plates, fold and put away lawn chairs, and clean up.

“No podemos no vivir con miedo. Tenemos que seguir nuestras vidas, pero preparados y alerta,” says Juan Mejia as he walks two women down his driveway. We cannot live in fear. We have to continue with our daily lives, but prepared and alert.