Part 2: A Family Waits
The day after I went to see Dy Nguyen in ICE detention in Lumpkin, Georgia, I also went to his home on the outskirts of Atlanta to talk to his wife, Tammy, and their children, who are almost nine, five, and two. Tammy is expecting their fourth child in the coming weeks.
Around 4:30pm on a Tuesday in April 2026, I meet Tammy at the pharmacy where she works. I remember how exhausting it feels to be working full-time at eight months. I do not know what it is like to be working and also have small children, much less a partner in detention, while heavily pregnant.
“Are you sleeping?” I ask her. She smiles and sighs and says it depends. She is co-sleeping with the two youngest. Chari, the eldest, has her own room, but most nights she sleeps on a mattress on the floor in the same room with all of them. Sometimes she gets lonely and climbs up on the big bed too. “On those nights, I don’t sleep,” laughs Tammy.
I tell her about my conversation with Dy the day before, at Stewart Detention Center. How positive and strong he is. How his biggest concern is for her, having to manage everything without him.
“I’m okay, I have a lot of help,” Tammy tells me. The kids are at her mom’s after school today, and friends with children in the same school picked them up and dropped them off at her mom’s. “It’s Dy I worry about. He’s in there all by himself and there’s nothing he can do.”
The concern Tammy and Dy show for each other is really moving. The only correction Tammy has for me is that Dy’s got Type 2 diabetes. “He’s not pre-diabetic,” she laughs.
I ride in the front passenger seat while Tammy drives the family minivan through the heavy rush hour traffic of northern Atlanta. About forty minutes later, I follow her into the house her mother shares with her brother and his family. The bustle of children, the TV on in the background, and the mixture of Vietnamese and English common to intergenerational households follows. At one point the toddler, Titus, tries to walk out the open front door. Being closest to the door, I put an arm out to gently block him. Titus breaks into tears. “Xin lỗi, xin lỗi,” I apologize, while trying to snap a photograph of him that’s not blurry.
The two girls, Eirene and Chari, are okay with me. Whenever I point the camera at them, they turn to me and flash bright smiles. Titus chills out in his car seat, gazing out the window for the whole ride. During the drive home, Tammy asks her daughters about school tests and projects with gentle attentiveness. They respond with the same energy, and by the time we arrive at their house, they are comfortable speaking with me.
I am kicking myself for being overly ambitious about this visit. I should just sit down with the kids. Watch them and ask them questions. Let the stories they want to tell me unfold. Instead, I have brought a DSLR camera and a field recorder, both borrowed, and no assistant, and the technical problems immediately start to get in the way of my interviews.
The three children move in zigzags around the house like bright, tiny balls in a pinball machine. I follow the two girls, conscious of being the only other adult in the house, while Tammy tends to Titus. Chari is the leader and takes my request for a tour of the house sincerely; Eirene, or “Rini,” as everyone calls her, follows her sister and adds her own adlibs to the conversation. The things kids point out to you show you what their whole world is made of. Their small possessions, the things that occupy their time, their parents, each other. And the family routines. The presence and consistency that builds physical and emotional safety.
Having drawn portraits of Chari when she was a baby, I find myself looking at her almost nine-year-old face with the attentiveness of an auntie. I see traces of her parents’ physical features as well as their gentle fortitude. I want to ask her how she’s doing. I ask her about her bed instead. In doing so, I replicate the indirect communication about feelings that I remember, growing up in a Vietnamese home. Chari gives me an answer about the bed, that also answers my unspoken question about Dy.
She says, “So I basically have two beds, one in my room and one in Mommy’s room, and this one is the bed from the guest room moved in here because Mommy wanted moved in here, but my other one I usually sleep on sometimes. Sometimes I sleep with Mommy, but usually I will sleep down on the bed by myself.”
And then the important detail. Couched in the Disney princess book that she shows me. “Usually Daddy, usually when he was still here, he usually would read like bedtime stories to me, and usually he was like, ‘Which do I think we might read?’ Or he sometimes will ask me what princess I want? And the princess I tell him, he will read. Sometimes we just go in order of the book.”
When Daddy was here.
“But that princess book I once read to Rini, and once me and her slept in this room, and we slept together, and that’s how I read the princess book to her.” I imagine the two girls keeping each other company, in the absence of their father.
Dy and Tammy have both told me that Chari, being the oldest and most aware of what’s happening right now, is having the hardest time. Tammy says that Chari cried for a week after Dy was arrested. She knew that it was a possibility on the morning he was reporting to the field office. Tammy waited until after school, when the kids were at her mother’s, to break the news. Chari knew it before Tammy even said anything. “Why are you crying?!” she demanded, and then started crying too. On the second week, friends began to come by on a regular basis to keep her and her siblings busy. Over six months later, Chari exhibits the same quiet resilience that her parents have. It is heartbreaking to see a child have to be this strong. I want to stress how brave and generous this family is to share their story and allow me to publish it. Their hope is to bring attention to not just their story, but that of many, many Vietnamese people and Asian people being detained by ICE right now.
Downstairs in the living room, I see four handwritten letters on printer paper, folded in half like cards, with sweet pictures drawn in color pencil. They are Valentine’s Day cards from Dy, to each of his four children. I ask Chari to read them to me.
She reads his fatherly words in her little girl voice, with descriptions. “So, this one is Rini’s. This is Rini. It’s two capybaras playing soccer. ‘Hi, Rene. This is Daddy. How are you, my Teddy Bear? Remember, remember. remember. Oh, okay,” she struggles a bit, between the cursive writing and the pressure of everyone’s attention and the noise of little Titus and everyone else. ‘Remember the time when Daddy take you, Titus, and chị hai, to her soccer practice, and while chị hai was practicing, we were playing soccer too. Those were some of the good times I missed doing with you guys…”
The letters go into detail about each child, with care and guidance laced throughout. I did not grow up with this kind of fatherly attention or ever really see it, except in a chapter of Louisa May Alcott’s book, Little Women, which I read a lot and loved as a kid, probably for stuff like this.
Chari continues, “And then this one is mine, the flying heart, it’s the angel heart. It says my heart, my soul, my Chari. ‘Dear Chari, you are my heart, my soul, my firstborn. You are special to me because you are our first bundle of joy. You have grown up so much from the last time I hold you. I’m so blessed and proud of you, Chari. I know sometimes you might feel sad because I’m not home, and it’s okay to cry whenever you feel when you’re when you’re feeling sad, but always remember that even when Daddy is not – when Daddy is not home, you – you’ll have your heavenly Father, our God, there with you. He knows, cares, and loves you more, even more than Daddy can. So, whenever you miss me and feel sad, I want you to tell Mommy about that, and ask Mommy to pray with you, and always remember that Daddy might be far away, but I’m thinking of you all of the time.’ ”
Tammy’s good friend Phuong has come over and brought her two daughters, Bella and Natalie. The girls are quiet and a little shy, but they hang around and listen to me interviewing Chari and Eirene. All of them take turns keeping Titus occupied while he sits, like a mighty small king, on Phuong’s lap as she spoon feeds him dinner. I think about Chari’s answer when I ask her if it’s different having a little brother than a little sister.
Chari laughs and says, “He is learning to say words slower. When Rini was one, she understand what we were trying to say. She knew how to feed herself. But Titus is just a MESS.” Titus emits a jolly roar as if to confirm. “When Mommy lets him feed [himself], he flips the spoon; he doesn’t even eat. He picks up the spoon with his food and then it just goes flying everywhere.”
Rini giggles with glee. I look at her.
“Not you, though, huh?” I ask. Rini beams.
Chari continues, “She was like –just lift her spoon, and she just ate it.”
The Nguyen kids do seem to fit the conventional wisdom about boys needing a little extra help, patience, and guidance. I think of Dy’s Valentine for Titus, which reads, “I could not believe some of the things that you are able to do effortlessly, effortlessly, such as climbing on the TV stand, fake crying, pointing to things that you want to do, and spitting out the only words you know best: ‘This, this.’ Even though I don’t like the tantrum that you always do when you don’t get what you want, I do thank God for you, for your healthy development. I pray that you will grow up to be used by God, and nothing will persuade you from living out that purpose. I love you, my son.”
I think about Dy growing up without a father to guide or discipline him, and how overwhelmed his mother was when he acted out. I think about future Titus, and the baby who’s about to arrive, another boy.
Nearing 8 o’clock, I can see that my presence is interrupting what should be dinner time. Tammy and I go upstairs to Chari’s room and close the door for a quiet last chat.
Thi: What do you miss?
Tammy: Our whole family being together. I think a lot of times we already prepare mentally, physically for the separation. We know it’s temporary, we hope it’s temporary, but you know, I, because of other things that’s going on, I feel like we thought that we prepared enough, but you know, whatever we do, I can never replace a father in a home or a husband in a family.
Thi: What would Dy be doing right now if he was here with you?
Tammy: Probably this is our dinner time. This is our gather around the table – the round table downstairs, that’s where we have our dinner. So this is our dinner time. We have a sign that says no devices at the dinner table. We try to set the example for our kids, because we tell them, put the phone away, right? So when we go home, we try to put our devices away and just focus on our family. So usually this is a family dinner gathering.
So, family times together, the way we talk, the way we laugh at dinner table, I feel like that’s the most important time, and we cherish that the most. So now, even though today is a special day, so usually we would still sit at the dinner table, and then Titus is still training just to sit at the table, so that we can have dinner together. We would talk about our days, we talk about, you know, what’s what’s good, what’s bad. We share a lot of stories at our dinner table.
But being alone, it’s a little difficulty, like, like Titus, right? He needs attention, so if he is not on his device, you have to play with him constantly. So, because I’m alone, sometimes it’s hard, so I have to give in. So I have to turn on his show, so that I can prepare food for the girls or do other things. If I don’t, then he would just like cling to me, and then want me to hold him, and then pull on my pants and just get the attention. So, sometimes during these times, I give in a lot to Titus, just because I need that time to do other stuff.
We are very blessed to have a lot of other support, like I mentioned earlier, from friends and church community, you know, not just support us financially, but also support us physically. They come, they keep the kids company, they make sure the kids is not sad and take them out. So we are very, very blessed.
Thi: Do you feel like you are able to get the support that you need from your husband right now, like just through talking over the phone and video?
Tammy: It’s somewhat a relief, but of course you know not totally right, because what’s matter is his presence, right, but emotionally it does help, you know, and then I. With with be with him being not home and detained, not having his presence like our relationship kind of like view up a little bit stronger than because when he’s here we both are busy, we both are working parents, we have our own things to do, we take care of the kids, and you know, sometimes we don’t have that moment where Dy and I, you know, talk. I miss you, you know. How’s your day? Things like that. But you know, during this separation, you know, it’s remind us, especially the time that we just know each other, because this is how we start. We start communicating when he was in detention center, so it brought back a lot of memories, you know. It brought back a lot of feelings, and then we get to talk to each other more, like we open up more, rather than just, “can you take the kids to piano,” or, you know, just all about the kids. But you know this separation does somehow, you know, bring our feelings back a little bit, where we feel loved, we feel missed. Yeah, but then not having him here is a different story too. So I mean, there are both pro and con to every situation.
Thi: You always find the bright side.
Tammy: [laughing] Yes, yes, yeah.
