In a waterside house in the town of Lakeland, Florida, Marven laughs with two women he loves dearly - his sister Rochelle and their biological mother, Guerline. The warmth between them is unmistakable as they celebrate his 16th birthday, even though they spent a decade apart. Now they fear being separated again. Also celebrating is Stacey Nageli Angulo, who adopted Marven when he was three years old, from Haiti, in the wake of a devastating earthquake in 2010.
She helped Guerline and Rochelle come to the US three years ago, reuniting the family, as spreading gang violence triggered a fresh humanitarian crisis in the Caribbean island nation. The two Haitian women, whose names we have changed for their safety, live and work legally in the US under a scheme called Temporary Protected Status (TPS). It provides protection for people already in the US who are from countries hit by war or natural disaster. But TPS is due to end for 350,000 Haitians in February, as part of US President Donald Trump's sweeping changes to immigration policies.
Rochelle, now aged 21, cheers, as Marven blows out his candles, but Guerline's smile falters. In just a few months, the two women could be deported. After the earthquake, Guerline lived in Haiti's capital Port-au-Prince, struggling to provide for her children. She says offering Marven for adoption scarred her, but she wanted a better life for him.
Stacey, who now renovates properties after a career in the corporate world, felt compelled to adopt a child from Haiti in the aftermath of the disaster and raised Marven alongside her two biological children.
Hearing about the violence, she began researching legal routes to the US for Rochelle and Guerline. When a humanitarian scheme opened in 2023, they applied immediately. Three weeks later they were approved and on an airplane and here with us, she says.
The two Haitian women moved into a caravan on Stacey's driveway, before renting an apartment locally. Guerline now works in a hotel, and Rochelle has jobs at a supermarket and a nursery, dreaming of becoming a nurse.
But both women are terrified of returning to Haiti, a country faced with rampant gang violence, kidnappings, and killings. The threats of displacement have escalated drastically.
Stacey, who voted for Trump in past elections, finds herself horrified by the prospect of deportation for her family. To rip families apart like ours and deport people to countries where it's absolutely unsafe… is unthinkable and unconscionable, she states.
The U.S. immigration service insists that TPS for Haitians was never intended to last indefinitely, citing the need for rigorous vetting that is complicated by the current instability in Haiti.
As the expiration date for TPS approaches, many lives hang in the balance. For Marven, the looming possibility of losing the two most important women in his life is unthinkable. The family now cherishes their time together, grappling with the uncertainty of what lies ahead.
She helped Guerline and Rochelle come to the US three years ago, reuniting the family, as spreading gang violence triggered a fresh humanitarian crisis in the Caribbean island nation. The two Haitian women, whose names we have changed for their safety, live and work legally in the US under a scheme called Temporary Protected Status (TPS). It provides protection for people already in the US who are from countries hit by war or natural disaster. But TPS is due to end for 350,000 Haitians in February, as part of US President Donald Trump's sweeping changes to immigration policies.
Rochelle, now aged 21, cheers, as Marven blows out his candles, but Guerline's smile falters. In just a few months, the two women could be deported. After the earthquake, Guerline lived in Haiti's capital Port-au-Prince, struggling to provide for her children. She says offering Marven for adoption scarred her, but she wanted a better life for him.
Stacey, who now renovates properties after a career in the corporate world, felt compelled to adopt a child from Haiti in the aftermath of the disaster and raised Marven alongside her two biological children.
Hearing about the violence, she began researching legal routes to the US for Rochelle and Guerline. When a humanitarian scheme opened in 2023, they applied immediately. Three weeks later they were approved and on an airplane and here with us, she says.
The two Haitian women moved into a caravan on Stacey's driveway, before renting an apartment locally. Guerline now works in a hotel, and Rochelle has jobs at a supermarket and a nursery, dreaming of becoming a nurse.
But both women are terrified of returning to Haiti, a country faced with rampant gang violence, kidnappings, and killings. The threats of displacement have escalated drastically.
Stacey, who voted for Trump in past elections, finds herself horrified by the prospect of deportation for her family. To rip families apart like ours and deport people to countries where it's absolutely unsafe… is unthinkable and unconscionable, she states.
The U.S. immigration service insists that TPS for Haitians was never intended to last indefinitely, citing the need for rigorous vetting that is complicated by the current instability in Haiti.
As the expiration date for TPS approaches, many lives hang in the balance. For Marven, the looming possibility of losing the two most important women in his life is unthinkable. The family now cherishes their time together, grappling with the uncertainty of what lies ahead.
