Four children in Florida have been living alone for months after ICE arrested their parents.

From late January 2025 to early April 2026, more than 146,000 U.S. citizen children found themselves in a situation where one of their parents was detained. According to official data from the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, the total number is closer to 60,000, although researchers believe the count is poor. The publication reports on one such family. Mother Jones.

While her elders prepare breakfast, 13-year-old Cynthia Perez sits at the kitchen table and barely eats.

"I'm nervous," she tells her mother's friend, Mariana Blanco, who gently brushes her long brown hair.

“I know, dear,” she replies. “Everything will be fine.”

It's a March morning in Palm Beach County, Florida. It's a big day for the four Perez children: they're skipping school and work to testify via video link at their mother's final immigration hearing. The judge will decide whether she will return home or be deported to Guatemala.

On the subject: The Department of Homeland Security is considering reviewing the cases of permanent residents to revoke their green cards and deport them.

Both their parents have been in custody since last fall: their father, also held at the Alligator Alcatraz facility, was then transferred to a detention center in Georgia, and their mother to a federal facility in Arizona. The children, all U.S. citizens, have been living without their parents for several months. Romeo Jr., 15, is the most reserved, dreaming of becoming a surgeon. Jessica, 18, is energetic and creative, considering military service after high school. Eliza, 21, is the most practical. After her parents' arrest, she dropped out of college, where she planned to study computer science, to take over the family landscaping business and help pay rent.

When I ask Cynthia about herself, she smiles and replies, "Annoying. Loves to joke around and tease her elders."

Then she quietly adds: “Well, I’m the youngest, I love to play, but right now I just… don’t want to do anything.”

"She used to be much more talkative," Eliza added. "I think we've all become quieter."

Cynthia looks at the strawberry waffles with disinterest. They are sitting in the kitchen of the Guatemalan-Maya Center, a nonprofit organization for immigrants where Blanco works. They are soon to speak with a judge and a lawyer from the US Department of Homeland Security. Blanco asks Cynthia, "What would you say if they asked you, 'If Mom gets deported, what would you do?'"

“I don’t know yet,” Cynthia replies, biting into a waffle. “I’m not ready for a new life in a different country.”

The other children are asking themselves this same question: should they stay here or leave, finish school in the US or be with their parents abroad? Everyone has their own answer, and it's frightening. Even this small family could soon fall apart. But, as Blanco says, at least there will be one less problem—the uncertainty will end. One way or another, their mother will be released from custody.

They worry about their parents. Eliza recalls: "Dad said it was really cold in Alcatraz. They don't give us sweaters or blankets, just one thin one, like a napkin."

"And everyone's sitting in the same room," Jessica adds.

Eventually, the conversation turns to the mother's conditions in Arizona. Eliza: "Wherever she is—here or in Guatemala—at least she's not in this horrible place."

The Perez family lives in Lake Worth Beach, a coastal town about seven miles from Mar-a-Lago and an hour's drive from Miami. Her parents, Romeo Sr. and Olga, came to the United States separately over 25 years ago, as teenagers. Olga's hometown suffered greatly during the Guatemalan civil war, when U.S.-backed forces massacred Mayan people, including her uncle. She met Romeo, also of Guatemalan descent, when she was around 17. He opened a landscaping business, and she cleaned houses and worked as a Mayan translator. They raised four children in a small lilac-colored house with coconut palms in the yard.

Life was good, although the children were constantly worried about their parents' status. A few years ago, they each installed an app to track each other's location. That's how they learned that Romeo Sr. had been detained on his way to work in September.

“We didn’t have a clear plan,” says Jessica, “but we knew one thing: we had to save my father’s business.”

A few weeks later, at dawn during Thanksgiving break, Olga woke Cynthia—she, Eliza, and Romeo were getting ready to mow the lawn. Cynthia asked to stay home. Soon, she was woken again—this time by Jessica: "Get up, we have to go."

Eliza explained what had happened: the Florida Highway Patrol had stopped the family's truck, and Olga had also been taken into custody. Jessica had a panic attack. "Why is this happening to us?" she sobbed.

Later, Cynthia wanted to go home, but Eliza decided they couldn't be alone. They stopped by the house only to pick up some things. Cynthia took a stuffed animal—a cat her father had given her: "I sprayed it with my mom's perfume."

Romeo, Jessica and Eliza left the shared bedroom and went to their aunt's, not knowing for how long.

There are countless such cases. According to the Brookings Institution, from late January 2025 to early April 2026, more than 14,600 U.S. citizen children found themselves in situations where one of their parents was detained. Official data from the U.S. Department of Homeland Security puts the figure closer to 60,000, but researchers believe the counting is poor.

Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) is supposed to ensure that minors are not left alone after being detained. However, we've heard stories of teenagers living alone; of a father who wasn't even allowed to call a babysitter; of parents who disembarked deported planes in tears, unsure of their children's safety. These aren't isolated cases—similar stories are being reported across the country.

Olga and Romeo, at least, had made preparations in advance. Several years earlier, they had drawn up legal documents allowing others to care for their children and make decisions about school, medical care, and travel. In addition to Olga's sister, they named Blanco, a close friend and the children's godmother, as their caregiver.

Many immigrant families are now taking similar measures. In Los Angeles, a lawyer described meetings held to prepare families for a large-scale ICE operation last year. One of these, organized by the school district, attracted nearly 800 people. Parents were advised to notify schools in advance of who could temporarily provide care for their children and to maintain records of medications and allergies. Last year, California Governor Gavin Newsom signed a law simplifying the appointment of alternative guardians.

In the Chicago area, one teacher immediately agreed to become such a guardian for her friend's children. In Florida, activist Nora Sandigo has helped hundreds of children through her organization over the past two decades.

“Children are often scared and confused, so every day you have to explain what’s going on, why their parents left, and that they’re safe,” she notes.

Mariana Blanco is 33 years old and has a young child. Born in Mexico City, she moved to South Florida at age seven. After college, she worked as a social worker in the favelas of Brazil, then worked for the federal refugee resettlement office in Chicago, before returning to Florida. There, she met Olga Perez, who was interpreting at the Guatemalan-Maya Center.

After their mother's arrest, the children had a difficult time. Romeo withdrew, unwilling to discuss what was happening with his friends. Jessica suffered from insomnia, and when her mother was transferred from Florida to Arizona, she suffered a panic attack that turned into an asthma attack—she lost consciousness and was hospitalized. "It's very hard to lose a parent," she admits.

At first, the children lived with their aunt, but they grew homesick and soon returned. Blanco regularly invited them to spend the night or just hang out, playing with her baby. She took them to the movies and the beach, cooked dinners, and bought ice cream. "Auntie is always there," Jessica assures.

“They do everything together, as a team,” Blanco echoes.

But much passed them by. Romeo's parents couldn't teach him to drive after he got his permit.

"I told them on the phone," he recalls. "It's a big event, and they're not around."

They didn't see Jessica go to the high school prom or choose colleges with marine biology programs. Eliza was especially upset that her parents weren't there for her 21st birthday.

Until 1996, undocumented parents with U.S. citizen children could avoid deportation if they had lived in the country for at least seven years and had not committed a crime. Then, amid a wave of tightening immigration policies, the requirements were changed. In the following years, thousands of parents were deported without their children, who became known as "immigration orphans."

Later, the Bush and Obama administrations also separated families. From 2010 to 2012, federal authorities issued over 200,000 deportation orders against parents with U.S.-born children. Research has shown that such deportations worsen the children's health and lead to thousands of them ending up in foster care. Some restrictions were introduced during the Obama administration.

In 2013, Tom Homan, then a senior official at ICE (U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement), developed a directive that took into account the interests of parents. In 2014, President Bill Clinton signed into law a tightening of the legislation, and later Barack Obama announced the Deferred Action for Parents of Americans program, which was intended to protect parents from deportation. However, it was never implemented.

Later, under the Trump administration, the policy became even harsher. Authorities are now more likely to detain parents who have lived in the US for many years, many of whom have US citizen children. According to a ProPublica analysis, parents are detained twice as often as under Biden, and mothers are deported four times as often. Most of them do not have serious criminal records.

Among other things, the administration, having lifted previous restrictions, introduced a new directive—the Detained Parents Directive. In practice, many of the rules are not followed: parents are often transferred far from their children, complicating contact and legal assistance. Frequent transfers between institutions hinder their ability to communicate with lawyers and resolve issues related to their children.

As a result, children find themselves in extremely precarious situations. Recently, the Guatemalan-Maya Center learned of a 13-year-old boy in Florida who had been living alone for several months. In another case, a schoolgirl moved in with neighbors after her mother was detained, only to find herself abandoned again when the neighbors' father was arrested.

On the day of Olga's hearing, the children gather at the center again. They've been preparing for weeks, skipping classes. Jessica has already testified, as has Eliza, who managed to convince the judge to allow her to testify despite her age. Romeo is preparing for his speech. Cynthia is apprehensive.

They pray. Jessica says, "If I can't be with both parents, let at least one be with me."

At 11:30 a.m., the children sit down in front of a laptop to contact the judge. A few minutes later, Blanco enters with the news: the hearing has been postponed again—for the fourth time.

The children hang their heads. "Another day of wasted work," Eliza concludes.

"Another day of wasted school," Romeo adds. Jessica starts to cry.

"It's disrespectful," Blanco insists. "Reliving one of the most important days of your life over and over again is torture."

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Later, Olga calls. She's crying and says she can't take it anymore. Cynthia and Eliza are crying too. Blanco stands next to them. Romeo clutches a stress reliever. Jessica tries to reassure everyone: "Just one more week, Mom, we'll get through this."

In a week, everything will happen again - the hearing will be postponed again.

The children understand that when this is all over, they may have to move away. Cynthia wants to be with her mother, but she's not sure she's ready to live in Guatemala—she dreams of becoming a veterinarian. Jessica isn't sure either. Romeo wants to stay in the US for medical school. Eliza is thinking about moving back to her mother.

They hug, try to support each other, joke through tears.

In a few months, both mother and father will be deported to Guatemala.

Read also on ForumDaily:

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