Jasmine Garst

After we met that one time, Em and I stayed in touch.

She would send me WhatsApp messages almost every day, you know, pictures of her pinatas and stuff your tia sends you on WhatsApp, you know, a daily blessing, softly lit images of flowers or kittens or kittens inside flowers with some motivational quote.

And I'd ask about the kids.

How is everyone doing?

Has the family made any decisions?

And then, around the beginning of summer, radio silence.

After a few weeks of not hearing anything from Em, I reached out.

I could tell my messages hadn't even gone through.

I started to wonder if maybe Em or her husband got arrested, deported, or maybe they finally agreed to leave, to self-deport.

It was strange that I hadn't heard from her, but this has sort of become a constant in my life as an immigration reporter.

For the last few months, on a regular basis, I will have an extraordinarily intimate conversation with a complete stranger.

Or someone will find my phone number and call me from inside a detention center, and they will tell me their worst fear, their desperation.

They will ask me what I know as if I know.

And then that person will just vanish.

It's like my WhatsApp is filled with ghosts.

So yeah, over the summer, when I stopped hearing from them, I decided to go check in on this family.

As I drove to Southern Maryland in the storm, I was really unsure of what I was going to find.

But as I approached the driveway...

Someone drew the curtain and these four faces, like, pressed up against the window.

And it was Em and the kids.