The Door I Shouldn’t Have Opened

The knock comes again—harder this time. Not a request. A warning.

Hour doesn’t hesitate. He moves fast, controlled, the way men do when panic has already burned itself out and left nothing but instinct behind. He crouches to Haku first, murmuring in Khmer—soft, urgent—and Haku nods like he understands more than he should. Ma clutches Haku to her chest, her eyes sharp now, alive in a way I’ve only seen in moments of fear. Ba grips his prayer beads and says something low and final, like a blessing or a goodbye.

Hour turns to me. He shakes his head once. No time. Then, to my surprise, he looks at Caelan.

Caelan straightens immediately. “I’m not leaving her.”

Hour’s jaw tightens, but there’s pride there too. He squeezes Caelan’s shoulder once—hard—and then ushers the rest of the family toward the back door. Ma looks over her shoulder at me, eyes wet, mouth trembling as she whispers something in Khmer I don’t understand—but I feel it. Survive.

The back door clicks shut. The house goes quiet in that eerie, vacuum-sealed way that only happens right before violence.

I take a breath I don’t feel. Then I step forward. The metal security door rattles as I unlock it. Thick bars. Reinforced hinges. We installed it years ago because Hour insisted. Because he’d grown up knowing doors were never just doors. Behind it is the front door—also metal. Cold. Heavy. No decorative glass. No welcome mat energy. Just function. I open the security door. The second I touch the handle of the front door, it slams inward.

I don’t open it. They do. Metal screams as it buckles. The frame groans. The door caves under a battering ram like it was made of cardboard.

“ICE! DON’T MOVE!”

Shouting fills the house. Boots. Too many. I barely have time to pull Caelan back before bodies flood the entryway like a breach in a dam. They don’t ask questions. They don’t announce names. They don’t check first. Hands shove me backward. Someone yanks my arm. Another shoulder-checks Caelan hard enough that he stumbles.

“Hey!” Caelan shouts. “She didn’t do anything!”

“Hands where I can see them!” a man barks, already reaching for his cuffs.

I throw my arms out instinctively, blocking Caelan with my body. Every nerve in me lights up like a live wire. “I’m opening the door,” I snap. “I’m cooperating. You don’t need to touch my kid.”

That earns me a look. Not cruel. Not kind. Assessing. Like I’m an object they’re deciding how to label.

One of them—tall, square-jawed, face already flushed with adrenaline—glances past me, eyes scanning the house. “Where are the others?” he demands.

“What others?” I shoot back.

“The Asian occupants,” he says flatly. Not coded. Not careful. “Male adult. Elderly couple. Child.”

My stomach twists. No sense in lying, they clearly already know - The house is in their name. “They’re not home,” I say immediately. “They went to Chinatown.” It comes out smooth. Too smooth.

The man’s eyes narrow. “Chinatown,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word.

“Yes,” I say. “They go there a lot. Family stuff. Grocery. Temple.”

Another agent snorts. “Funny. We just ran plates.”

“Genius, none of the cars are in my name” I say, heart slamming against my ribs so hard it hurts. “I live here. You knocked. I answered.” That’s when it hits me—this thought, sharp and sickening: Is this how they treat everyone? Or is this because they think I’m not the one they’re here for? I’m white. Tattooed, sure. Loud hair. But white. Is that buying me seconds? Minutes? Or is it just delaying the inevitable?

One of them steps closer, invading my space, eyes flicking down to Caelan and then back up to me. “You lying to a federal officer?” he asks.

“No,” I say, steady. "That would imply your role is official. We both know it's not.”

Caelan’s hand grips the back of my shirt. I feel the tremor in his fingers. He’s trying to be brave. Trying to be grown. I put my hand over his without looking back. “Why are you here?” I ask.

The agent doesn’t answer right away. He nods to someone behind him, and suddenly there’s movement—agents fanning out, boots pounding through my house like they own it. Cabinets open. Doors slam. Drawers yanked. My home stops being my home in seconds.

The man finally looks back at me. “Failure to comply,” he says. “Obstruction. Harboring.”

“I didn’t harbor anyone,” I snap. “You didn’t even ask me a question before breaking my door!”

He shrugs. “Not our problem.”

Something in my chest cracks at that. Not a scream. Not rage yet. Just a quiet, awful understanding. This isn’t a conversation.

Hands grab my arms—rough this time. Too rough.

“Mom!” Caelan shouts, panic finally breaking through. “Mom, stop!”

I twist, instinct flaring. “Don’t touch him!”

“Ma’am, you are under—”

“LET GO OF MY SON!”

The words tear out of me raw, animal, echoing off metal walls and shattered doorframes. For half a second—just half—I swear the lights flicker. No one notices. Or maybe they do, and they ignore it.

The agent tightens his grip on my arm. “You’re coming with us,” he says.

He looks at Caelan like he’s an inconvenience. No. No no no. I plant my feet.

“You are not taking me,” I say, every syllable carved out of something deep and dangerous. “Not without a warrant. Not without answers. Not like this.”

The man sighs, annoyed. Then he nods. Two agents move in behind me. Caelan shouts my name as cold metal clamps around my wrists. The sound is loud. Final.

And somewhere far behind the house—behind the garage, behind the fear—Hour is hiding with the rest of our family, praying I can hold this line just a little longer.

As they drag me toward the door, one agent leans in close and mutters, almost casually, “You should’ve stayed quiet. This would’ve been easier if you weren’t white.”