When 25-year-old Fort Worth father of four Jesus Vazquez was deported to Mexico in March, his wife Cassidy suddenly found herself running a one-woman operation at home: full-time caregiver, breadwinner and de facto case manager for a family now split by the border.
The abrupt separation has left her juggling rent, childcare and mounting legal fees while trying to keep life as normal as possible for their young children, all under the age of 9.
Vazquez was detained after a routine ICE check-in in November and spent months in federal custody before his removal, according to the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. He told the paper he came to the U.S. as a baby and had allowed his DACA protections to lapse because he could not afford the renewal fee.
Tarrant County court records cited by the Fort Worth Star-Telegram show a 2022 misdemeanor marijuana conviction that led to yearly ICE check-ins, and an asylum claim that an immigration judge later denied.
How the Family Is Coping
Back in Fort Worth, Cassidy has leaned hard on relatives, friends and a crowdfunding campaign to keep the lights on while caring for four children ages 3 months to 8 years.
The family’s GoFundMe campaign had raised more than $6,000 toward a $10,000 goal at the time of this report, according to GoFundMe. The organizer says donations are going toward rent, food, childcare and legal help as Cassidy weighs whether she can take the children to visit Mexico once the school year ends.
For now, the routine is simple and relentless: get the kids to school and appointments, stretch every dollar, and squeeze in phone calls and video chats so the children can still see their dad, even if only through a screen.
Legal Hurdles and Next Steps
Vazquez accepted a voluntary departure option in late January, a decision that can carry long-term restrictions on returning under U.S. immigration law. Federal guidance outlines 3-year and 10-year bars that can apply after certain departures or removal orders, and affected migrants may apply for waivers, but approvals are discretionary and often slow.
For those trying to decipher the fine print, federal rules are detailed in the USCIS Policy Manual and in a Congressional Research Service primer on immigration consequences of criminal activity. None of it offers an easy or quick path back for families in situations like the Vazquezes.
What This Means for North Texas
The Vazquez case is one of several recent immigration enforcement actions that have triggered public outcry in North Texas, according to faith leaders and immigrant-rights groups who say families are being torn apart with little warning or recourse.
The Dallas Morning News reported last year that the ICE field office overseeing the Dallas-Fort Worth region recorded more immigration arrests than any other field office in the country. Local organizers frequently cite that statistic when demanding more oversight and accountability.
Advocates say the fallout is not limited to the person deported. Families left behind often face severe disruptions to housing, income and schooling, especially when a primary breadwinner is removed.
Vazquez is now living in Mexico with a half-sister and working for roughly 2,000 pesos a week, about $110 to $120, while Cassidy says she does not want to relocate, according to the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. The family says they are pursuing legal options, and Vazquez is seeking a waiver that his attorney told the paper could, in a best-case scenario, allow him to return in five or six years.
Until then, Cassidy and the children are focused on staying housed, keeping the kids anchored in school and routine, and maintaining daily contact across the border while they wait to see whether appeals or a waiver might shorten the separation.
