Editorial roundup: The Houston Chronicle wonders how much hardship caused by ICE is enough

Marco is the kind of kid who won't let you just leave the apartment. You have to say goodbye first, sometimes with a handshake, always with a blessing. Instinctively, he'll make the sign of the cross over you, a small ritual for protection. The chubby-cheeked 10-year-old knows better than most that nothing -- no one's life or safety -- is guaranteed.

Routines, predictable and sure, matter to Marco. The Saturday H-E-B runs at 7 a.m. His dad tying his shoes for him. Sunday church. The image, as Marco likes to repeat, is always the same: "me, mamá and papá."

Then that image shattered. His 50-year-old father was picked up by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agents. Marco Antonio Ortuño, who goes by his middle name, was on his way back from a job in San Antonio.

Marco and Antonio found a new routine: a call twice a day from the detention center. For a month, they talked this way by phone.

Until, 42 days later, a rare stroke of luck: Antonio was allowed to go home. A well-filed petition on his behalf earned him the chance to await his August deportation hearing there.

On July 22, when he arrives at the east Houston apartment complex the family calls home, it is dark out. Past Marco's bedtime certainly. Marco's mom, Cecilia, 45, told herself she'd wait inside but the moment her phone pings letting her know he's arrived, she's out the door and running to the parking lot. Marco barrels into his father, who wraps him in a tight hug. "Papá," Marco repeats into the humid Houston night -- a simple, desperate plea. His emotions spill out.

Nearly two years into the president's mass deportation dragnet, these scenes have become commonplace. Teachers, toddlers, handymen, mariachi musicians detained. Thousands of them deported while others get a temporary reprieve. In the best of cases, we see their joyous releases from detention. We rarely see what comes next. The waiting, the uncertainty, the threat of decades of a life in this country suddenly ripped apart. And the family members, often U.S. citizens like Marco, left to pick up the pieces.

None of this is necessary. Nothing is stopping the Trump administration from enacting a deportation regime that truly prioritizes the worst of the worst instead of hardworking Houston fathers of U.S. citizens. Nothing is stopping Congress from passing an immigration law that creates a legal path for longtime residents. Marco's suffering is a choice made by our politicians.

Behind the overwhelming churn of immigration headlines is a generation of young Americans living with profound uncertainty. Houston has an estimated 1.2 million people with mixed-status families, meaning some members have legal status and others don't. The Migration Policy Institute estimates that more than a quarter of a million parents of minors are at risk of deportation in the Houston area. That's hundreds of thousands of children like Marco whose lives are being treated as collateral in a war the American public by and large does not want to fight.

Indeed, Antonio's detention has shaken the entire family. Everyone who can be there that hot July night of the reunion is. Marco's older brother, Oscar, went to pick Antonio up with his wife and toddler daughter, leaving Cecilia to watch and wait with their baby and Marco. The tiny apartment seems to swell to fit the extended family and later, friends, who stop by to celebrate.

Antonio presses his fingers to his mouth and then toward the photographs of the family members not present. Marco's older sister in her Marine uniform. And Sergio, a baby-faced high schooler in his football jersey. Though Marco's three older siblings are all Antonio's stepchildren, they called him papá growing up, too. And that's what he was to all four: dad.

Then he walks to the far corner of the room, to a bookshelf-turned-altar laden with candy, Lego figurines, photographs and a single wooden box. Inside, are ashes. Sergio's ashes. For a quiet moment that almost goes unnoticed in the commotion around him, Antonio bows his head and reaches for Sergio.

This family has already endured more than most. In December 2024, Sergio was struck and killed by a train walking to school. He was 15. His death shook the neighborhood and beyond. This editorial board rushed to the scene after months of reporting on dangerous rail crossings across the city. The series was awarded a Pulitzer Prize.

Marco saw the news photos before he even knew it was his brother who had been killed. He lost his best friend, his scary-movie-watching, Whataburger-loving best friend. Now, even with his dad home from detention, Marco faces the threat of another unthinkable loss. Antonio's release was granted but his deportation hearing is on August 26. Despite a pending application that would actually fix his legal status, Antonio could be sent to Mexico, a place he hasn't seen in decades.

It is unthinkable that this family could be wrenched apart again. But it is even crueler that, for him to stay, the family has to legally prove that losing Antonio would bring "unusual" suffering to Marco, a U.S. citizen. It's called an exceptional and extremely hardship standard. Under Trump, that standard has become impossibly hard to clear.

Marco had already been seeing a psychologist since his brother was killed. During Antonio's detention, his anxiety surged. The signs of depression were unmistakable.

"Sometimes he cannot sleep, he barely eats," Cecilia told the editorial board in a quiet voice. "I don't know how to," her voice broke, "how to help him. Marco and my husband are so close."

Cecilia was worn down by worry and grief. A mother who prides herself on being capable and strong, she felt powerless, unable to help her youngest.

The mood lifts as Antonio settles inside the apartment. He can't stop running his fingers through Cecilia's hair. She cut it short while he was away. He wraps his other arm around Marco, kissing every bit of him that he can reach. Antonio's granddaughter, Sarita, hands him drawing after hastily scribbled drawing, while his grandson, Oscar Jr., lights up from all the activity.

"He can technically walk," Marco beams.

Antonio gasps. "Really?"

"Well, he can crawl," Marco responds.

Antonio lifts Oscar Jr. into the air and the baby squishes his face into a grin. He scoops Sarita into his lap and the trio cuddle.

Under Trump, this is the new family reunion in America, filled with hugs and a silent but unmistakable desperation to stay in this moment forever. Safe. Together.

Eventually, Cecilia serves up the chicken tinga that's been warming on the stove in a giant pot. She jokes that even though she can't cook, Antonio will love her cooking tonight. But the tinga is delicious, perfectly spicy and filling, with beans and tostadas. Antonio's ankle monitor is the only reminder that this isn't any other family in America enjoying a meal with friends.

"It feels like it was a year," Antonio says, still wearing the faded black jeans and white T-shirt he bought while he was in detention. His boots don't have any shoelaces. He thinks he lost 10 pounds eating the "meat but not meat" in the center.

Wrapped in his father's arms, Marco tells him matter-of-factly, "I barely got to go anywhere and I barely got to see you this entire summer."

"I hope it doesn't happen again," he adds.

It is a relief to have his dad home. But for how long?