Hi, my name is Sergio. This isn’t easy to write or share, but I want everyone to know how great you are, Mom.

There are no words big enough to describe the love I have for you. You were the most amazing, energetic, and loving woman I’ve ever known. Your spirit was loud, joyful, and always full of light. You had a heart so big, it didn’t just belong to me—it reached everyone you met. You treated all my friends like family, and your kindness touched every soul lucky enough to know you.

You were a warrior. You worked double shifts five days a week and still found the time to pick me up from school, cheer me on at my little league games, and make sure there was always food at home. You decorated the house every chance you got—especially for the holidays—and made everything feel magical. You never asked for much. All you ever wanted was for me to grow up with a good heart. And how could I not, being raised by someone whose heart was made of pure gold?

I’m going to miss your laugh, your jokes, your great energy. I’ll miss how you’d dance during Dodgers games—especially when Freddie Freeman hit a double—and how we’d yell “Charge!” together in the stands. I’ll miss our baseball nights with your homemade ceviche, and the seat you always had ready for me when I came home from work.

You made carne asada on hot days, wore your LA hat and beanies with pride, and always knew how to pick the perfect gift for birthdays or Christmas. Win or lose, you repped your teams with love—Dodgers jerseys in every color, Kobe gear when we watched the Lakers, and your Cowboys jersey ready for those Sunday games. No matter what, you showed up with heart.

But more than anything—you gave me love. A love so deep, so powerful, that it shaped who I am.

You used to tell me, “Eres la luz de mi vida”—“You are the light of my life.” But what you didn’t know is… you were mine.

My light.

My best friend.

My hero.

My jokester.

My everything.

You gave me my middle name because you loved Alejandro Fernández, and you loved to dance—really dance—the night away. You were always down to talk chisme with me, or sit together watching El Gordo y La Flaca. And when I bought you your iPad, it was like watching a kid on Christmas—your eyes lit up, always on YouTube, always laughing at TikToks. That joy… it was real. It was you.

I’m going to miss walking out of my room and hearing you ask, “¿Estás bien? ¿Tienes hambre?” You were always checking on me. Always making sure I was good. And when I wasn’t? You knew how to say just the right thing—sometimes even calling me “fat” just to hype me up to get to the gym. Because deep down, you just wanted me to be happy, healthy, and to know that I deserved to be loved by someone who loved me as much as I loved. You forgave me for all the dumb shit I done/do. You yelled, were disappointed, and were hurt. But regardless, you loved me. You forgave me, you knew it was just part of raising a teenage boy, a young adult

I’m going to miss those long bus rides we used to take when I was little—just you and me. I’m going to miss driving out for Korean BBQ, just for you to order soup and leave me to eat everything else. Those are the

When I was shy in school, you made sure I had friends. You welcomed them over to play Nintendo 64, took us to Universal Studios, out to eat, out and about—anything to make me smile. You never wanted me to be sad. And I wasn’t. I had an amazing mom—one who spoiled me, who knew I wanted pizza on Fridays, who took me to Hollywood Video so I could play the game I wanted, or let me pick the movie I wanted to watch. I remember how we’d go to the theater and watch three or four movies in one day—English or Spanish, it didn’t matter. You just knew I loved them all.

I’m not mad at God for taking you—I’m just heartbroken you won’t get to meet your grandkids. That you won’t be there when I come home from work and see you already waiting, my spot on the couch ready to watch the game. But even through the pain, I’m grateful—grateful for the 33 years I got to spend with the most beautiful, caring, and incredible mother anyone could ask for.

I’m not ready to say goodbye. Not to my mom. Not to my best friend. Not to my Day Zero. But I know you’re walking into Heaven with that same warm smile. I know God is waiting with open arms. I know your mother, is waiting. Rest easy mom, I’ll be okay. Just finally rest, you deserve it mami

Just do me one favor, God—save me a plate.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading. Im fucking sad, im fucking devastated. But i just needed to share. More than anything, I want people to remember how incredible my mom was. If you knew her, please feel free to share a memory, a story, or even just a moment you had with her. Your words mean just as much—if not more—than anything else right now.

Donations are appreciated, but they’re not all I care about. What matters most to me is honoring my mom’s life and the impact she had on the people around her. She was special, and I’d love to hear what she meant to you too.

Thank you for the love, the support, and for keeping her memory alive with me.

I’ll see you soon, Mom.

I love you forever. Thank you for everything, and I know your with me mami. Rest please, and thank you for this incredible love I have.