My second semester at Texas State University began last January. I remember the morning of January 24 not because of my new classes but because of the frightening information that appeared on my phone.
My husband Igor Babkin was supposed to have arrived in Mexicali on the U.S.-Mexico border by the time I woke up, but his location on WhatsApp showed: ‘‘Last seen today at 09:22 a.m.”—on a remote desert highway connecting Tijuana to Mexicali.
We’d always share locations, lately so I’d know where to rescue him if it came to that. As a migrant waiting in northern Mexico for a U.S. Customs and Border Patrol (CBP) appointment to request asylum and cross into the United States, I knew Igor might leave for groceries one day and never come back.
