I am going to tell you a true story that happened on Union Street in Peterborough at the end of a gloomy day in March. But I must take you back to a bright October day when the story began.

I was expecting Daphne, who wanted to see the apartment I was renting. Instead, a 3-year-old girl with round bright eyes, a curious 9-year-old boy and their parents spilled out of the van. I hadn’t expected a family, but it was too late to tell them that my apartment was too small for a family of four. Besides, I instantly fell in love with the little girl climbing all over me and the boy firing questions at me. The two of them spoke English. Their parents spoke Haitian Creole. They had already decided they were moving in, and so had I.

After they moved in, I realized they had no furniture, so I supplied them with as much as I could. I asked if they had beds, but either Google Translate didn’t translate, or they didn’t want to admit that they were sleeping on the floor. We drove to the SAU the next day and enrolled the children in school. I explained the situation and Daphne translated.

They came to Winchendon on a humanitarian visa. These visas are for “reasons related to urgent or severe circumstances, such as people seeking refuge from persecution.” Haiti is in a state of political and criminal crisis, with escalating gang violence, widespread displacement and a severe humanitarian crisis. From what I could understand, my new family had been living in Winchendon and working at Market Basket for two years. They moved to Peterborough seeking a better school system.

I wondered how they would pay rent, utilities and fuel on a Market Basket salary. However, it was never a problem. While one parent worked, the other cared for the children until they switched places. Someone was working all the time, including the weekends. They never missed a payment.

Lovelie and I chatted in the backyard during the warm fall season and formed a bond, despite the challenge we had communicating. Often, she knocked on my door with a question about a bill, a report card, a worry or a visit. She wanted to learn English, so I called around. The only ESL classes I found were in Nashua or Manchester, too far for them because they used their car to get to work.

Their new life filled them, and me, with joy. The children were safe, speaking English and loving school. They struggled with the cold despite living through the previous two winters, but things were looking up for them as they settled into their apartment.

In the middle of March, I heard the gentle knock on my door and opened it to Lovelie bundled in her puffy pink coat. She held an official-looking letter in her hand, which wasn’t unusual, as I often helped her decipher what these things meant. I saw the heading of the letter before she handed it to me. The Department of Homeland Security had revoked their work visas, prohibiting them from working but allowing them to remain in the country.

Recently, I heard the term “self-deportation” on the news. When Lovelie first told me that humanitarian aid helped her family to get here, I thought it was a charitable organization, not a government agency. Humanitarian parole, the official name for humanitarian aid, turns out to be a sentence, as its title suggests. But what did they do to break parole? Leave a country so violent that moving back was not an option? Work to provide for their children? Have hope? They had Social Security numbers and paid U.S. taxes. They thought they were safe.

After they left for Canada to live with Lovelie’s sister, I cleaned their apartment of everything they owned. Daphne took some of it. They had exchanged the doorknobs on their two small bedrooms for ones that locked. Seeing this made me understand why they never opened the door when I knocked, even though they were there. I cannot imagine the fear they held from living in a country rife with violence and chaos. I can’t imagine what it felt like for them to find peace in our town, only to have it taken away.

On the eve of his departure, Lovelie’s son confided his fear to me. He had lived in Haiti, where “gang violence, political instability and economic turmoil have displaced over 700,000 people, forcing families from their homes with nothing but what they can carry. Some 5.5 million people— half of Haiti’s population – rely on humanitarian aid to survive.” What view of the world does this 9-year-old boy have? First, uprooted from his native country and tasting safety for a moment, only to have it taken away.

A 9-year-old boy and his family came to America seeking peace and stability on March 29. They did everything right so that they could work and live in this country. Their visas were valid. Then they had to flee again from my country, which once took the responsibility of providing them solace.

Elizabeth Goodhue serves on the board of the Monadnock Area Transitional Shelter, which provides transitional housing, support and referral services to people who are experiencing homelessness, to educate the community on issues of homelessness and to advocate for solutions.