Hello, my name is Luis. I had been living in Pennsylvania for two years, waking up every day at 5:30 a.m. to go paint apartments. My wife, Maria, stayed home with our three children: Jesus (12), Alejandro (8), and Javier (1)—who is a U.S. citizen. We thought we were safe; we believed that if I worked hard and kept a low profile, nothing bad would happen. On the afternoon of February 2, 2026, I left home for work as usual. I finished my shift and drove to Walmart, as we were running low on groceries at home. As I was leaving the supermarket, two black vans cut off my path. They weren't wearing local police uniforms; instead, they wore black jackets with yellow lettering: ICE. "Federal Agents. Immigration," they said. I felt my heart stop. I didn't run; I remained calm. They told me to show them my documents. I presented my state ID, my driver's license, and my work permit. That wasn't enough for them. Without saying another word, they immediately handcuffed me like a criminal and shoved me into the van. I continued to stay calm, though my mind was racing with thoughts of my family—my wife, Maria, was waiting for me at home with dinner ready. I didn't know what awaited me. They took me to a processing center in Buffalo. They wouldn't let me make a phone call right away, and thus began the nightmare of being cut off from the outside world. Twenty-four hours passed before I was finally able to call Maria. When I at last managed to make a collect call, she was screaming in terror and weeping inconsolably. I could hear my children crying in the background as they watched their mother break down; they were left all alone in a country where they no longer had a provider. My life in the detention center began. The conditions are inhumane; they treat us worse than criminals, even though we are essential workers. Days turned into weeks. My thoughts were constantly with Jesus, Alejandro, and Javier; I prayed to God to give Maria the strength to carry on and make it through this on her own. My Family's Loneliness Maria told me over the phone that the children ask about me all the time. They are having nightmares. Jesús—the eldest—has started acting as if he were the adult of the house, trying to comfort his mother, which breaks my heart. The Hispanic community helped us with food, but the anguish of not knowing whether I will be deported—and seeing my family separated forever—is unbearable. I have spoken with a lawyer, but the situation is difficult. I am told that the chances of being granted bail are currently low, and that the process could take months, leaving my family in a socially vulnerable position. Now, my life has been reduced to waiting for a call from my wife, staring out a small window, and praying that my children do not suffer a trauma that will last them a lifetime. Two months passed, and I was deported. Following this tragedy, and now devoid of hope, I find myself back in my country of birth, while my family remains in the U.S. with no money for rent or food. That is why I am reaching out to you now, asking for whatever help you can offer—whatever comes from your heart.