Enrique Castillejos and his wife stopped at a Winchell’s Donut House. It was part of their after-church routine on Friday nights.

That evening’s sermon had been about finding peace in God in turbulent times, and they felt it spoke directly to them. Enrique, 63, and his wife, Maria Elena Hernandez, 55, were undocumented immigrants. Like millions of others in Southern California, they had been looking over their shoulders as federal agents conducted immigration sweeps.

Freedom, they felt, had become impossible in the land of the free. They had made a decision: Leave America and move back to Mexico.

The process has the sterile, bureaucratic name of self-deportation. For Enrique and Maria Elena, it resembled a long, slow-motion goodbye. It took an emotional, spiritual and logistical toll on everyone around them, including their three children and two grandchildren. They had to decide what to do with their old, beloved dog and their trucking business. They had to suddenly cut ties with their church and their neighbors. Visitors bearing gifts dropped by unannounced.

Maria Elena had suggested to Enrique that he leave for Mexico first, while she waited for her broken foot to heal. “No,” she recalled Enrique telling her. “Together we came and together we go.”

Their decision to go came long before the Trump administration’s crackdown in Minneapolis, and long before federal operations intensified in their own San Bernardino County neighborhood. Returning to Mexico had always been in the cards. But they had wanted to go on their own terms, retiring there someday. The Trump administration’s crackdown had prompted them to make that “someday” now.

The couple’s departure hit the family hard. They watch the news now with conflicting emotions, as Enrique and Maria Elena start their lives over in Mexico and their adult children struggle to carry on without them. None of the couple’s friends or relatives tried to change their minds, and there were few heated debates over the decision. In their community, the federal immigration raids made such an extreme move seem entirely reasonable.

“It’s a mixture of all those feelings — being grateful for knowing that they’re safe, and at the same time, hating that this is the way it has to be,” said Lizbeth Castillejos, 29, the couple’s oldest daughter.

Back at the coffee shop, Maria Elena and Enrique could feel the clock tick. It was Aug. 8. They had just two weeks left. Their nearly 30 years in the United States were coming to an end.

“Ya casi,” Enrique told her: Almost time.

Maria Elena set down her coffee cup. “Ya casi,” she repeated.

Maria Elena had to squeeze her belongings into just a few suitcases. She insisted on taking a little piece of home with her: her curtains.

Some were thin and delicate, others thick to dampen sound. Gold, red, green — a color for every season. They had rented the house in Bloomington, an unincorporated community some 50 miles east of Los Angeles, for more than 10 years. It was semirural, with dirt sidewalks and residents on horseback. Outside, Enrique kept chickens in the backyard. Inside, Maria Elena had her curtains.

To make room in the luggage for them, Maria Elena took out all the socks. Her younger daughter, Helen, 23, a schoolteacher, told her not to worry because they could get new things in Mexico.

Eventually, Maria Elena gave up. Leaving America meant leaving her curtains, too.

It was lunchtime. Maria Elena and Enrique had just sat down at the kitchen table, plates of bistec, white rice, black beans and diced cactus spread out before them.

There was a sudden pounding at the door. For a moment, the conversation grew quiet.

For months, masked immigration agents had seemed to appear everywhere in Southern California, and fear gripped entire communities. Except for doctor’s appointments for her broken foot and strategically timed trips to the market, Maria Elena had stopped leaving the house.

One day, Enrique had called his daughter Lizbeth, who works for a local immigrant rights group. A white sedan was tailing him. He thought it might be ICE.

Nothing had come of it, but it was another sign that life as they knew it in the United States was over.

They were afraid of being picked up by agents, not so much because of the threat of deportation but because of the uncertainty of detention. One goal of the Trump administration’s mass deportation campaign is to effectively scare people into self-deporting while dangling financial incentives to leave. Enrique and Maria Elena had decided not to accept the administration’s offer of $1,000 and a flight home to migrants who deport themselves because they did not trust the government to honor the arrangement.

Ultimately, there had been no dramatic incident that spurred their departure; they had simply grown weary, day after day, of watching their world shrink to fit only the bounds of their home.

“He said he would go after criminals, and we don’t consider ourselves criminals,” Maria Elena said of the president, adding, “We consider ourselves working people. It turns out, for him, we’re all criminals.”

Although they were living in America illegally, the couple saw no contradiction in that: Undocumented immigrants were part of the fabric of everyday life in Southern California. Over time, it didn’t seem especially risky.

Still, they expressed regret that they had never obtained legal status. In 2006, Maria Elena and her children had joined protests in Los Angeles demanding amnesty for undocumented immigrants. The family had also discussed another pathway: If one of their children joined the military, Maria Elena and Enrique could get the right to stay. Each of their three children had seriously considered signing up when they turned 18. But the couple never wanted their children to set aside their dreams and careers for their parents.

Were immigration agents now at the front door? Responding to the pounding, Enrique and Maria Elena’s son, Joaquin, 26, bolted to open it. It was their close friend, Kiké, dropping by to say hello.

Everyone was anxious about Rex, the family’s scruffy 14-year-old dog. Maria Elena and Enrique had decided to put Rex down before they left. He was ailing, could hardly walk and was in constant pain.

Rex had seen Joaquin and Helen grow from children to adults. One day, when Joaquin was away in college, he learned his parents were giving the dog to a family friend because Rex had been killing chickens in the backyard. Joaquin raced home. He took Rex in himself.

This time, Joaquin was not stepping in to save him. Everyone had agreed that Rex was suffering. Still, saying goodbye to the dog was like saying goodbye to a member of the family. Rex was a “constant,” as Helen put it, and those constants were ending as the family prepared for self-deportation.

“It needs to be done soon,” Helen told her dad over dinner as they discussed when to put down Rex. But she didn’t want it done this soon.

“Right now, there’s too much loss,” she added. “I can’t do both.”

A nervous Enrique stood at the front of the church and clutched the microphone. He was telling the congregation, with Maria Elena standing at his side, that they were leaving for Mexico.

To Enrique, it wasn’t so much the president’s will, but God’s.

He saw self-deportation as an opportunity to spread the word of God to his family back in his hometown of Mapastepec, near the plot of land in rural Chiapas where they had decided to move. He found comfort in Psalms 37, which says that God does not forsake those who believe.

Every Sunday, Enrique carried a composition book with notes on Scripture and a Bible with his name scrawled on the side. Maria Elena brought a tambourine for the hymns. And in the house, Enrique led prayers before meals.

For Maria Elena, leaving the United States was a way for her to come clean with God. For years, the couple said, Enrique had been using another person’s identity — a common but illegal way for undocumented immigrants to get the paperwork they need to work in the country. They said that not long after arriving in the United States, a friend had helped Enrique use the identity of a Honduran who had work authorization. Last year, the Trump administration moved to end that type of work authorization, making it harder for Enrique to keep using that identity.

Guilt weighed on Maria Elena. “We got tired of living in a lie,” she said, adding, “We have to be good before God. You can’t be a child of God and lie with two names.”

She already had a name for the plot of farmland awaiting them in their native Chiapas: Rancho La Promesa de Dios. God’s Promise Ranch.

At the church, a long line formed before them. For half an hour, one by one, congregants gave them tearful hugs.

Michael, 2, bounced around the living room, his brightly colored toys scattered all over the tiled floor. Olivia, 4, was fixated on a cartoon on the television.

Maria Elena was on grandmother duty.

Grandma and Grandpa’s house was where the little ones learned Spanish, and where Enrique cut up fruit to feed them one piece at a time. It was days like these that the grandparents cherished. It was days like these that made Maria Elena cry.

“It’s only when I look at my grandchildren and say to myself, ‘Who is going to take care of them?’”

Enrique grabbed his belongings from the old turquoise Toyota. His longtime friend who had dropped by to say hello that one day, Kiké, was there to pick it up. For Enrique, it meant the old clunker was one less thing he had to get rid of.

Kiké and Enrique had much in common, including their names. Kiké is short for Enrique. The two men are from the same town in Mexico, and they ended up here in the same place in America.

Kiké was sad to see them go, but he, too, was contemplating leaving because of the Trump administration’s immigration crackdown.

“A lot of fellow paisans are wanting to leave,” he said. “It doesn’t look like this thing is going to get resolved. It’s going from bad to worse.”

Each sibling took turns on the mic.

It was Enrique and Maria Elena’s farewell party, at a nearby property. Earlier that day, the family had said goodbye to Rex before putting him down. At the party, a mariachi belted out Christian ballads. Butterflies — a symbol of migration — decorated a towering fruit spread.

Joaquin said he would miss the little things, like stopping by on his lunch break for his mom’s beans.

Helen, the youngest, talked about how there was always mom and dad. When her older siblings had moved out, she had remained. Now, for the first time, the unit of three — Helen, Maria Elena and Enrique — would be apart.

Lizbeth tried to focus on the positive.

She said this was a fresh chapter. Their parents’ legacy in America would live on. Three college-educated children with dignified careers. And two grandchildren, one old enough to express her wish to spend every summer in Chiapas.

On the party invitation cards Lizbeth had sent out weeks earlier, there was nothing that suggested the gravity of self-deportation. The occasion was simply titled “New Beginnings.”

It was Aug. 24. Sixteen days had passed since that stop at the donut shop after church.

At the house in Bloomington, after instant coffee and pan dulce, the family huddled in the living room and bowed their heads. This was the day Maria Elena and Enrique were self-deporting.

“This morning, our father, we’re grateful to you because you have kept us here in this land, in this country for 29 years,” Enrique said. “And we thank you because you never abandoned us.”

Then they squeezed into the van and set course for the two-hour trip to the border crossing in San Diego.

In the blink of an eye, as they crossed into Mexico, 29 years reset to zero. This was the couple’s first time returning to Mexico together. It was their home country, but a sense of wonder seemed to overtake Maria Elena and Enrique. They had entered the United States nearly three decades ago, crossing that same border on foot. They had initially intended to stay for a few years, save up money and return to Mexico, but after they had children, their plans changed.

“Saliendo del sueño Americano y ahora entramos al sueño Mexicano,” Maria Elena told her family in the van: Leaving the American dream and now entering the Mexican dream.

A bright day greeted them in Tijuana as they strolled through downtown. Maria Elena ambled around on a scooter for her broken foot, feeling out of place. Joaquin put his arms around her, trying to cheer her up. They planned to stay at a relative’s house until their flight to Chiapas.

In the months to come, Maria Elena and Enrique would try to adjust to life in Mexico. They would stay with relatives, and make slow progress fixing up a small dwelling on their plot of land. They would find themselves at times overwhelmed and homesick.

But before all of that, on this first bright day in Tijuana, Enrique pulled out his Mexican I.D. and smiled. It might have felt like any other family trip. The political forces and fears that had forced them to leave went unspoken.

After the siblings had dropped off their parents in Mexico and headed back home in the van, they felt a sense of optimism as they waited in the long line at the port of entry. Vendors selling churros, chips and religious ornaments paced between cars.

Joaquin lamented that there was no time for a final Dodgers game with his dad or a family trip to the beach.

Lizbeth assured him there would plenty of memories for them to make in Chiapas.

Helen, the schoolteacher, was anxious to get home and prepare her lesson plan for the week. She read aloud a list her mom had given her. It had all of the things she had forgotten to pack but wanted from home the next time she saw them.

“No. 1,” Helen read aloud in the van, “look for my earrings.”

Hours had passed when a customs agent finally waved them into the United States. Soon, everyone except the driver slipped into a slumber, and the road home was quiet.

They slowly woke up as the car rolled up to the house in Bloomington.

Olivia, 4, realized she was at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Then, it dawned on her. Grandma and Grandpa were not there. She cried out for them.

The siblings embraced in the middle of the driveway. Their parents had once described what it felt like to leave life behind in America. They said it felt like a kind of death.

Lizbeth, surrounded that night with her loved ones on the driveway of her parents’ empty house, felt the same way, too. She called it grief.