Tears in the Epoxy: A Countertop, a Deportation, and the Cost of Cruelty

It’s 4:00 a.m. and I cannot sleep. I’ve been tossing and turning all night, haunted by what I witnessed yesterday afternoon.

Michael and I are in the midst of renovating our condo, and yesterday was the long-awaited day when the countertops were installed. A milestone that should have brought joy instead left me shaken.

Two workers arrived, carefully cutting granite and quartz, their skill evident in every movement. I tried, clumsily, to engage in Spanish—after all my years in South Texas and now in South Florida, I still stumble. But one of the men, Warner, carried a heaviness that pierced through the noise of saws and epoxy. His silence was broken only by tears—tears that fell directly into the work he was mixing.

When I asked if he was okay, his story spilled out. His best friend and the friend’s wife had been pulled over by ICE. The excuse? Tinted windows. What followed was brutal: his friend thrown to the ground, his wife forced face-down on the hood. They were separated, taken away in different cars. His friend was deported to El Salvador. His wife is in a holding center, awaiting a hearing that will decide her fate. This happened in early September.

This couple has lived in the United States for over twenty years. He is a master carpenter. She worked in a restaurant. They have no criminal record. They are active in their community, pillars in their church. These are not the criminals the administration claims to be deporting. These are neighbors, contributors, parents.

And the cruelty deepens: they have four children—twins just five years old, another child eight, and one ten. All U.S. citizens. They were given no chance to say goodbye. Their only contact with their mother is a weekly phone call from somewhere in a neighboring state. If she is deported, the children will either be forced into a life of poverty and danger in El Salvador or remain here under the care of Warner and his wife, who already have two children of their own and work tirelessly to make ends meet.

I am distraught. I feel helpless. How do we become agents of change when families like this are torn apart under the guise of “law and order”? How do we reconcile the heartless approach of a system that treats human beings as disposable, ignoring decades of contribution, community, and love?

Warner gave me his phone number and address. Michael and I will do what little we can—offer financial support, stand beside him as he shoulders the care of four more children. But it feels like a drop in the ocean compared to the enormity of the injustice.

This is not fair. This is not humane. And I cannot look at my new kitchen countertop without remembering the tears of a man who is heartbroken for people he loves.

So I ask: empathy? How do we help? How do we rise to meet this challenge together?