Dear Mom: Three Voices on the Gifts Mothers Leave Behind

Dear Mom: Three Voices on the Gifts Mothers Leave Behind

As Mother's Day approaches, we find ourselves reflecting on how our mothers have truly shaped who we have become. A phrase, repeated until it took root; the way she carried a hard day; a belief in us that she held steady long before we could hold it ourselves.

These are the gifts that do not fade. They live in how we raise our own children, how we speak to a stranger, how we weather disappointment. They are the inheritance that no appraiser can value.

Some of us are reflecting on mothers we have lost, holding their memory like a lamp in the dark. Others are still in the room with theirs, learning in real time, still receiving what she has to give. Both experiences ask the same question of us: have we stopped long enough to recognize what is being passed down?

In the pages that follow, three members of the Hillside staff share, in the spirit of a love letter, the most important thing their mothers passed down. Not a possession. A value. A phrase. A way of seeing the world.



Whether your mother is still creating her legacy in your life or you are struggling with the loss of your mother, we invite you to our Mothers’ Day Remembrance service on May 10th at Hillside Memorial Park. You can register for the event on our site.

Rafael Ochoa, General Manager of Hillside Memorial Park and Mortuary

Dear Mom,

When I think of you, strangely, wonderfully, I smell Pond’s cold cream. For as long as I can remember, that has been the scent of your blessing, your hands cupping my face, your warmth passing into me the way only a mother's warmth can. When you surprise us with your cooking, the whole house changes. That is still you. That has always been you.

When I think of you, I see a strong-willed, determined, and incredibly detail-oriented person. And yes, Mom, people use those words for me, too. I take that as the highest compliment I could ever receive.

You came to Los Angeles with a third-grade education and your first three children in tow. You had two things in mind when you arrived: education for your kids, and a home of your own. You achieved both and more. From nearly nothing, you build a real estate portfolio across Los Angeles that you still manage entirely yourself, by hand, even now. I think of what it cost you to get there. I think of the doors that were physically closed in  your face when you asked for help, and how you turned that pain into a promise: one day we will have our own home, and no one will be able to close their door on us.

You kept that promise. You keep every promise you make.

You had a gift I have been trying to learn my whole life. You could walk into any room and find the one person carrying a heavy heart. Gracefully and quietly, you would find your way to them, start a gentle conversation, and somehow create the safety for them to open up. I watched you do it up close at family gatherings, and from a thousand miles away for relatives in far flung places.

And you did the same for me. If something was weighing on me, you would say, “something is there. What is going on?” Somehow, you always knew, and even though you didn’t need to ask, I treasured every time you did.

There is a phrase of yours I have carried with me, and I think I will carry it for the rest of my life: “hang on to that which no one can take away from you.”

Over time, I have learned what those things are: dignity, self-respect, education, and pride in one’s self. When everything else feels dark and heavy, I let those be my light and hope. You taught me that lesson because you lived it. When the world gave you very little to stand on, you stood on your own character, and built from there.

Working at Hillside has made me understand something more deeply than I could have otherwise. I see families at their most vulnerable. I watch children stand at a podium and try to find the words to encapsulate  someone they love. And it reminds me, every time, not to wait for the podium. The work of recognizing someone's legacy belongs in the living room before we deliver any eulogy: in the quiet morning before the day starts, in the stillness of the garden, in those calm conversations where I sit across from you and take in everything you are. I have been practicing that. Meditation, early mornings, gardening, being present with the people I love. You taught me that peace is not an accident. It is something you choose to create around yourself so that you can truly see and hear the people who matter.

You have had a far greater impact on me than you will ever fully understand. But I am going to keep telling you. That is something else this work has taught me. Do not save the gratitude. Do not let it wait for a moment that may never come. Say it now, while you are here, while we are in the same room, while I can still reach across and feel the presence of the person who made me.

I love you, Mom. I’m, so grateful for all the time we have together. I am still learning from you. I hope I always will.

With all my love,

Rafael

Rob Finger, Family Service Advisor,  Hillside Memorial Park

Dear Mom,

My favorite thing about you was your certainty in me.

"My son can do anything," you would say, to anyone who would listen. I used to protest. Mom, I am really not that smart. And you would answer, calmly, without missing a beat: You are my son. You can do anything, as long as you put your mind to it.

I think of that voice often. I thought of it most the day I told you I was being considered for a position at Hillside. I had shared the news with the three most important people in my life, my wife, my sister, and you. Two of them were startled. One of them was curious. You said, That sounds very interesting. I think that is going to be a very, very interesting job, and place to work.

You saw something the rest of the world did not always see right away. You knew it takes a particular kind of person to sit beside families on the hardest day of their lives, to meet them with patience when they are not at their best, to carry dignity into a room where dignity feels impossible. Almost seventeen years later, I am still doing that work. You are part of the reason I can.

You gave me other lessons, too. You taught me about money long before I understood why it mattered. Not as something to show off, you said, only something to respect, because in a world like ours, it is a tool that helps a person stand on their own two feet. Because of you, I was eventually able to buy the home I live in. You were still guiding me long after the lesson ended.

You taught me about family by loving ours so completely. Nothing made you shine the way our family did. When my sister, my wife, my brother-in-law, my niece, my nephew, and I were all under one roof, you were full of brightness and light. There was nothing more important to you. Nothing. You would quietly set aside something you wanted, a watch, a pair of shoes, a small indulgence, because you would rather save it for your children. Family, for you, was never a sentiment. It was a practice.

You taught me how to hold a hard day. When work was heavy, I would come home and tell you about it, and you would listen, and then you would say, very simply, that tough days pass. That the people who love me are still there. That tomorrow will look different. I still hear you saying it. I still find, always, that you were right.

And you taught me how to be good-natured. You had such humor in you. I could tease you, call you by your first name in a gentle way, and you would roll with it, eyes smiling. You made it easy to love you.

You now rest at Hillside, just a short walk from my office. I stop by to tell you about my week. My colleagues have come to know you, too. On your birthday, several of them walked over with me and sang to you. I could almost not hold back the tears. It reminded me, once again, what an extraordinary group of people surround me here, and what an extraordinary mother surrounded me first.

You have been gone since 2018. Somehow you are still with me every day. Still encouraging, steady, and reminding me that, with enough heart and enough effort, your son can do anything.

May your memory be a blessing. It already is.

With love,

Rob

Rena Pilar-Villaluz, Senior Accountant at Hillside Memorial Park

Dear Mom,

If I had to choose one word for you, just one, it would be strong. Not strong in the way the word gets thrown around carelessly, but strong in the way that matters: brave, tenacious, steady under pressure, and utterly, completely present for us.

You had to be all of that, because for so much of our childhood, Dad was working abroad. You were our cook and our driver, our teacher and our preacher, our cheerleader and our hero. You raised two daughters and a cherished son. You flew us to Indonesia during troubled times in the Philippines so our family could be together safely, then settled us back home four years later. Somehow, through all of it, you never let us feel that anything was missing. That is not a small thing, Mom. That is a remarkable thing.

Your love language was service. Fifty years as a homemaker, and you gave every one of those years with your whole heart. Our aunts, uncles, and cousins would come to our house for the holidays because they knew you would spoil them with your cooking and your warmth. Nobody left your home without feeling welcome. 

You loved to travel, too. You flew all across the Philippines, through Southeast Asia, and to visit us in North America. Despite your health struggles, some of our funniest memories together were born in hospital rooms along the way.

Your faith held you together, and it held us together, too. You prayed to those who would give you hope and strength to be who you needed to be. You believed in miracles, and we knew you were one. You gave each of us what we needed: your tough love, your high expectations, and your belief that we were capable of more.

What I hope to carry forward is exactly what you carried so quietly all those years: the willingness to serve the people you love with joy. The strength to hold steady when life asks too much. The faith that something greater is holding you, even on the hardest days. And the humor, always the humor, because you knew that laughter was its own kind of grace.

Your mission here may have ended, Mom. But the love you planted in us is still growing.

With love always,

Rena