“The thing that hurts me most isn’t losing my job or my home. The thing that hurts me most is not being able to show up on a Friday afternoon with donuts for my kids.”
Rolando told us this while sitting in the government shelter in Nogales, Sonora, far from Phoenix, the city where he built his life for more than 35 years. It was there that he started a family with his wife, who is also from Guerrero, Mexico. It was there that their four children were born and raised. It was there that he worked for years doing maintenance and landscaping for corporate buildings, and at night as a school custodian.
Before arriving in the United States, Rolando had already experienced displacement. When he was 18, he left Guerrero after criminal groups forced his family from their home and took the land his father and grandfather had passed down. From that moment on, migration became a means of survival.
In Phoenix, he found stability. Or at least he thought he had.
Rolando’s life was deeply rooted in his community. He knew teachers, neighbors, and families from the school where he worked. He understood the importance of parents being present in their children’s lives because he always tried to be present in his own.
For Rolando and his family, Fridays were a simple but sacred tradition: donuts, coffee, and a movie together at home after school and work.
Rolando was detained while driving home. A traffic officer pulled him over and later contacted ICE. Although he showed documents for his vehicle, the officer said he did not believe him and decided to detain him. Rolando was transferred through the detention centers in Florence and Eloy, Arizona, before being deported to Nogales.
From that moment on, his family’s life was divided by a border.
Ten days after his deportation, his oldest daughter was set to begin the college admissions process. One of his sons was about to graduate from middle school and prepare for high school. In their family, these milestones were always celebrated together: tacos, grilled meat, music, and photos to mark the transition from one stage of life to the next.
“I always dreamed of being there for every achievement. I wanted them to study and become great people. My daughter wants to be a lawyer. My sons have dreams. And now I don’t know how to help them from here,” he shared.
The distance changed more than where he lives.
It changed the way he can be a father.
Now his children can only see him through video calls. His wife, Adelia, carries much of the emotional and financial burden on her own while Rolando tries to figure out how to parent from afar, how to remain a present father when he can no longer take them to school, sit with them after class, or hug them during important moments.
“People think they deport one person, but in reality they separate an entire family,” he says.
At Kino, we hear stories like Rolando’s every day. Stories in which deportation interrupts not only careers and life plans, but also family relationships, educational opportunities, and the emotional stability of children and teenagers.
The forced absence of a parent has profound consequences, especially during key moments in a child’s development, when they need guidance, stability, and presence the most.
“I don’t know how long it will be before I can hug them again,” he told us as we said goodbye. “But every day I try to remind them that I’m still their dad, even if now it’s through a screen.”
As immigration policies continue to separate families, Rolando is trying to hold on to something that should never depend on borders or detention centers: a father’s right to be part of his children’s lives.
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