My uncle Ricardo has called me "pichón" — little bird — my whole life. He's married to my aunt Maricarmen, my dad's older sister, and they're also our godparents. They were never able to have children of their own, so my sister and I became theirs. He tells anyone who will listen that we're his greatest accomplishments.

Caption: My aunt and uncle with my sister, Andrea. This is what we mean to them, from the very beginning.

This past May, I got married. Watching me get married was something the two of them had dreamed about for as long as I can remember. Instead, my uncle spent my wedding day in a detention center.

Caption: Ricardo and Maricarmen on their wedding day, over 40 years ago.

They've been married for more than 40 years. After my uncle was kidnapped in Venezuela, they fled to Mexico, where they claimed asylum and lived in Cancún for some years — then came to the U.S. legally, with a dream of retiring close to family. The U.S. government granted him protection because sending him back to Venezuela could get him killed.

For over a decade, they lived a quiet life in Pembroke Pines, Florida. He worked in distribution, she worked as a bookkeeper, and they spoil Mili, their 9-year-old rescue dog, like she's royalty. He showed up to every immigration check-in, every time.

On October 31, at one of those routine check-ins, he was handcuffed and taken to the Krome Detention Center. He was 66. He has since turned 67 inside. The very next day, my aunt was let go from her job — within 48 hours, she lost her husband and her income. She's been living with my parents ever since.

In the nine months since, my uncle has been moved from detention center to detention center. He lives with pulmonary emphysema, and detention has broken his health down further — a heart attack in custody, hospitalizations more times than we can count, rushed out for emergency care and then brought right back. My aunt has spent nine months afraid to answer the phone. His story was covered by The Independent: https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/us-politics/ice-detention-florida-venezuela-heart-attack-b2869411.html

This week, we got the "final" word: he will be deported within the month — not to Venezuela, which the courts already agreed is too dangerous, but to a third country, most likely Mexico. And here is the hardest part: they don't know where home will be. They have no citizenship or residency in Mexico. My aunt is Argentinian, so Argentina may be where they try to build a life — a country where they know no one. Two people who have been married for more than 40 years don't know, today, what country they will grow old in.

Deportations can happen with a single day's notice. When the call comes, my husband and I will get on a plane so that when my uncle lands, family is waiting for him — so he has a safe place to sleep that first night and isn't dropped off alone somewhere, sick, with no home to go to.

Nine months with no income, plus the legal fees, have taken everything they had. My aunt will follow him with Mili and whatever fits in a suitcase. After a lifetime of working and doing things the right way, they are starting over from nothing — at 67 and 69 years old.

Here's exactly what the money will go to:

Caption: My sister and me with our aunt and uncle. They've been showing up for us our whole lives.

They spent their lives taking care of us. Now it's our turn. Anything you can give goes straight to helping them land safely — and if you can't give, sharing this page helps more than you know.

Con todo mi amor, Su pichón