“My experience taught me that the system can be cruel and indifferent, but also that kindness from strangers, stubborn advocacy, and relentless hope can bring a child home.”
My name is Deisy Carolina Venecia Farías. I left for the United States in September 2024 with my husband Fabio and our son Emmanuel, hoping for safety and a better life. After three months waiting for our CBP One* appointment in Mexico, we were given permission to cross the border, and we entered on January 9, 2025, stayed briefly at the shelter, and then rented a trailer in Brownsville, Texas.
Life felt fragile but possible. Until April 21, 2025, when a Border Patrol stop changed everything. I was with my husband Fabio. We were on our way to pick up my son from school after an asthma attack.
I presented our documentation, but the agents ignored our papers, forced us out of the vehicle, and detained us. They took us to the Border Patrol station and then to a detention facility in Raymondville, Texas. We were separated and unable to communicate with Emmanuel, who was only eleven at the time. Meanwhile, he was left alone and sick with his asthma in our trailer.
Those days were unbearable. I begged for help, terrified for my son’s safety. From detention, I arranged for other migrants to check on him and bring food.
I spent four months in detention and Fabio five, waiting for deportation while Emmanuel lived alone, finishing school and even having a fellow mother accept his 5th-grade graduation diploma in our absence. I later found his photo on the school’s social media— a reminder of how his childhood marched on without me.
When I was deported to Venezuela, I entered another grueling fight. I met other deported parents and followed countless steps—meetings, interviews, letters—trying to bring my son home. A network of strangers and friends, and a woman named Kelly from an organization called the Young Center, became my lifeline.
We created a GoFundMe to cover the fees of the woman care-taking Emmanuel, and people donated. Still, Government channels were slow or unresponsive; letters were sent even to the First Lady, and I watched the heartbreaking reality of more than 90 children separated and placed with third parties. It was devastating to see so many mothers suffering.
“I write this for every mother still waiting—your pain matters, and your children matter.“
Hope finally came through the persistent help of Kelly, journalists, and volunteers. After a tense, uncertain period, I learned Emmanuel had been placed on a flight back to Venezuela. When I saw the photo they sent me, everything I had feared turned to relief—God had answered. Reunited at last after almost seven months apart, we shared our story with journalists, including the New York Times, to raise awareness of what happened to us and so many others.
I still feel fear, sorrow, and deep compassion for the families who remain separated. My experience taught me that the system can be cruel and indifferent, but also that kindness from strangers, stubborn advocacy, and relentless hope can bring a child home.
I write this for every mother still waiting—your pain matters, and your children matter.
*mobile application launched by U.S. Customs and Border Protection to streamline travel, trade, and immigration processing.