I adopted three daughters in 2022 after many years of fostering them. Their biological father — we call him Papa — is incarcerated for an armed robbery he committed while in the throes of addiction. He’s been in prison since before his youngest girl was born.
When Papa was arrested, his wife cut all ties. When their home life deteriorated, the girls entered foster care, and Papa was legally entitled to have contact with them. The social workers weren’t interested in making that happen, so I sent Papa photos and some of the girls’ drawings. Papa responded with a drawing of his own. We moved to full-fledged letters as the girls learned to read and write.
Papa struck me as gentle and unassuming; he even wrote to me and my husband, Rob, thanking us for all we were doing.
When we moved to phone calls, I was impressed with how Papa centered the girls. He made space for them to have a relationship with Rob without feeling like they were being disloyal. He helped them with Math and Spanish and gave them good advice when they were angry or frustrated with their mother; when the middle girl went through a rough patch where she stole from her classmates and a teacher, it wasn’t me or Rob or school who got her to stop. It was Papa.
I bring the girls for visits
What impressed me the most was how Papa treated his girls’ younger half-brother, whom Rob and I nicknamed Baby Brother. Baby Brother was the son of Papa’s wife and her boyfriend, and we had adopted him as well. We assumed Papa would want nothing to do with a child that wasn’t his, but we were wrong.
Papa wrote letters and included Baby Brother on phone calls. He asked me to send Baby Brother’s photo so he could get a tattoo of him. His attitude was that the brother of his daughters was his son, and he referred to him as “mi hijo.”
The prison is an hour away, and after our adoption was finalized, I took the girls to visit on a cold, overcast morning. The youngest wasn’t old enough to understand the biology that made Papa family, but she felt an instant connection and threw herself into his arms. As they embraced, tears streamed down Papa’s face.
We spent that visit eating overpriced tacos from a vending machine and playing board games. Papa talked about the certifications he’d earned for janitorial services and managing a commercial laundry. He was working on his GED and wanted to become a counselor.
“To help men like me,” he said, “when they get out.”
We had to leave before the photo booth opened, and when the guards realized this, they scrambled to get it ready early so Papa could have a picture with his kids. It was my first hint that the guards liked Papa, even respected him.
They play with him during our visits
I was supposed to have the girls within arms’ reach at all times, but on a subsequent visit, a guard dropped a soccer ball at our table and let me sit comfortably on the sidelines while Papa played with them on a field filled with gopher holes. I learned Papa had a knack for easing tensions between prisoners before violence erupted. When fights did occur, Papa was sometimes the one who broke them up.
Papa’s good behavior shaved a significant amount of time off his sentence; he was scheduled to be released on February 6, 2025. Our phone calls were peppered with plans for him to attend basketball games, school events, and Sunday dinner. I fantasized about our girls having two dads give them away at their weddings. After all, what child wouldn’t benefit from having another loving adult in their lives?
On January 24, Papa got a notice that extended his time a few weeks so ICE could pick him up. He’d previously been told ICE wouldn’t detain him, but that plan changed, and a warrant was issued. I don’t have words to describe the devastation of having all the promised joy ripped away just as it brushed our fingertips.
The girls went to the prison for a last visit on a rainy Sunday. Papa spent this time filling their heads with memories from their early childhood, stories about a pet hamster having babies and an ice cream truck whose motor made a distinctive sound the oldest always recognized, the special way the middle girl flailed about to greet Papa when he came home.
I tried getting him a lawyer
I tried to hire an immigration attorney for Papa, but every legal office I called was overwhelmed with the number of cases they suddenly found themselves with. A friend of a friend called in a favor to get someone to take the case, but that attorney isn’t optimistic he can keep Papa from being deported. When I paid the retainer, staff repeatedly asked if I was certain I even wanted to try. His petition to reopen his asylum case was denied, but we are in the process of appealing.
The kids are understandably depressed. Papa does a good job of not letting them know how scared and sad he is, but I hear the suppressed panic in his voice. I have no regrets about reintegrating Papa into his daughters’ lives, but I do think being deported would be easier for Papa if I hadn’t.
“I know this is hard, but we have to stay brave,” I tell the kids often. “I’m still trying everything I can think of.”
And when trying feels like running into the wind, I remind myself I didn’t have high expectations when I first reached out to Papa and that effort reaped benefits beyond my wildest dreams.
