A recalcitrant mother would fall in line if the smugglers put guns to her children’s heads. Once these men owned her children, she would work herself to death to send them money against the day she could get them back. Every week, in some motel, in the back of some burger joint, in some brothel or in some field, a woman is weeping in a horror we cannot comprehend because we aren’t listening. After all, she’s “illegal.” Not even human.
