“I never met my family,” Erika tells me. “See, I’m from Honduras but I never had papers. I never had a birth certificate either. I’m like an animal.” When she was still a girl she was told that her mother worked in the fields, “whoring like me.” Her mother had given her and her twin sister away as a baby to a woman by the name of María Dolores, who Erika remembers very well. “That old whore had seven kids, and we, my little twin and me, weren’t treated like her kids, we were like her slaves.” She always calls him her “little” twin, though had he not died at the age of six, he’d be thirty years
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