Margoth taught me the meaning of Family

I was born and raised in Brooklyn in 1989. My parents had me young. My dad was 22 at the time, my mother (Jenny) was 24. They never married, and they always fought. I was always caught in the middle of it.

I do not remember much of my childhood at all. Therapists today would say that is because the child did not know how to process all the trauma, so it is easier just to forget. That might be the case. I will never know.

When I was 9, my mom moved to Ohio with her new husband and children. I know it was 1998 because I remember watching SummerSlam: Highway to Hell. My mom told me my dad only took me from her so that she would not have me, basically that my dad only wanted to cause her pain. I will never know if that is true or not, but it is true that my dad was not really present during my life. He always preferred to do other things and go to other places without me.

So there I was, a 9-year-old on my own Highway to Hell, moving to Queens, moving in with my grandma, aunts, and cousins who would taunt me for having no mother and being an abandoned child. But I was tough. I knew I was in Hell with them. But there was a light at the end of that tunnel, and that person was Margoth, a family friend who had let a few of my family members live with her. I was the latest addition to the crew.

I remember feeling safe with Margoth, the only person I would speak to and the only person who would listen to me. She has many stories of things that I would tell her about my parents that she never wanted to repeat to me. I told her what I saw, what I knew, and what I believed. I always told the truth, then and now.

She never told me what I would tell her before. I could always tell that she would be saddened by what I would tell her, and she never wanted to tell me what those things were because I believe she did not want me to relive them.

When my mother, Jenny, moved to Ohio, she never called to check in on me. Neither did my dad, who I barely saw. When I did see him, he was pretty much checked out. Margoth filled in the gap for them both.

When everyone moved out, my dad and I stayed, and my bond grew closer with her. I saw her as my mother, although I never told her that when I was younger. She was the most patient and selfless woman in the world. If you talk to anyone she knew, they would tell you that and many other great things about her.

Although she worked in home cleaning for wealthy people, she managed somehow to always help her relatives financially. Her siblings were all married, all with homes they purchased, while she rented an apartment on the 5th floor in Woodside, Queens. Still, she was able to save their homes from going into foreclosure, send money to her parents when they got sick, and help others in the same way, myself included.

When one of her clients could no longer pay her during the dot-com bust, she still volunteered to clean their apartment for a whole year without pay until they could get back on their feet. That woman was incredible. She was an angel sent here to serve humanity in her own unique way.

Margoth Blanca Lazo cleaned apartments for the wealthy homeowners of Manhattan. Sometimes she would help out with their offices too. Some of her clients/friends had known her for 45 years, and I spoke to them after Margoth passed. Some of them sobbed like babies when they found out, and I did too.

One of those buildings where she worked was Tower 53 in Midtown Manhattan. I would help her with work sometimes. I would do the vacuuming, the sweeping, occasionally the washing of the dishes, but she never let me clean the toilets.

I remember standing in one of the apartments in Tower 53, looking outside the window, at a view that overlooked Central Park, and caught myself in a deep thought. I started to question everything in this very moment.

At the time, I was right at the end of my studies at St. John’s in Queens. I was contemplating jobs and felt that all of the starting salaries were too low, so I started to consider becoming a real estate agent. Going to a university to major in math, but pursuing real estate as an agent in the end, made no sense, but that’s what I felt was the right move.

Margoth supported me as she always did. She actually motivated me and told me to go for it and that everything was possible.

Tower 53 is where I spoke to a building employee who said I should get into real estate, and he knew someone who was considering selling a building in Harlem. I connected with this landlord, pitched the listing, and 2 months later I sold the building for $4,200,000.

Before I even graduated from St. John’s, I was walking around campus with a certified check in my pocket for $104,000. $52,000 was mine after the 50/50 commission split with my broker at the time.

Margoth is a major reason why I got into real estate. I saw no difference between the people who owned these condos and myself. Margoth always told me, “Sí, niño, todo se puede con la ayuda de Dios.” “Everything is possible with the help of God.”

In June of 2026, when coming back from Spain with my wife and son, sitting in a hotel in Colombia, Margoth called me and told me she did not feel good and began crying. She had told me she had some tests done, but did not want to say what they were for or what the results were. She would only tell me that we needed to trust in God.

I knew something was really wrong, and I started to imagine the worst, but I tried to stay positive. I knew I had to go to NY to see her right away.

When I got to NY, she was staying at one of her sisters’ houses in Queens, since my dad was not in NY at the time and she could no longer go up 5 flights of stairs. She did not look very well. I knew things were bad, but she would only tell me that they had operated on her thyroid. Still, it did not all add up.

She told me that she was very hurt by how some of her family members had reacted to the news of her being sick and how they were more concerned about what would happen to her properties in El Salvador.

She was taken to a hospital shortly after her stay with her sister, and I did not know things were so bad, since she had only told me that she had to go back to the hospital for treatments. I thought it was something that she would get over soon.

I was in NY with my family at the time. We had been in NY for about a month, and I had not seen her much because she was at the apartment with my dad. I had not talked to my dad in about 3 years since we had our last fight.

I went to see her while she was at Elmhurst Hospital on one of my last days in NY and did not see that she was in good shape. I asked the doctors what the condition was, but they told me under HIPAA they could not disclose patient information.

This was the moment I decided to take my family back to El Salvador, and I came back to NY 2 days later on a one-way flight.

I eventually learned that Margoth had some type of colon cancer that was no longer reversible, and the chemo had damaged her liver to the point of no repair. I still had faith. I stayed positive, and so did she.

I told her I would find her some sea moss, and I began feeding it to her. One spoon in the morning and one spoon at night.

I would stay at the hospital until they would kick me out. They told me it was a female room, and only females could stay with her. I told the nurses I identified as a female, and they looked at me weird. I asked them, what had happened to all that gender identity shit? What, now it doesn’t work? I told them they were weird, and I left as they had asked me to.

For the first few days, it was just me and my dad who would be there with her at the hospital. She would talk to us. She was in good spirits. I had hope.

Then her family started to show up, and this is when her health started to decline.

I remember one day specifically, when the sister Margoth told me had betrayed her by refusing to take care of her showed up. This day, her health declined about 80%. Her eyes were half open, glassy, and with purple lines under them.

The whole time she was in the hospital, her siblings were fighting over who would be the one to get Margoth’s properties in El Salvador. One of those siblings is a pastor. The pastor sister is the same one who betrayed her in her final days.

I sent this person a long WhatsApp audio note and quoted a few Bible verses, one of them being: “Not everyone who says to Me, ‘Lord, Lord,’ shall enter the kingdom of heaven, but he who does the will of My Father in heaven.” — Matthew 7:21 (NKJV)

I heard she went crazy after hearing it.

And to the nieces, I also sent them their own personalized message because they all said, “You will always be family,” but not one person sent me a photo of Margoth when they took hold of her photo albums.

None of these people ever called her to see how she was doing. None of these people ever came by the apartment to spend time with her. I know. I lived with her and would speak to her always.

When I was 7 years old, we went to her brother’s house in Queens, and I remember the brother’s wife (Babita) cursing out Margoth. This evil person was always jealous of Margoth because Margoth had that natural elegance and charm she always wanted.

Margoth did not know it at the time. She had low self-esteem because of how some people would treat her. I remember saying to her, “Don’t worry about her. Do not let other people make you feel bad.”

This person, the ex-wife of the brother, was the only person Margoth requested not come see her at the hospital. Margoth’s own sister confirmed that with me at the hospital too.

On August 12, 17 days before Margoth’s birthday, on my way back to Queens from Brooklyn, my dad told me Margoth had passed.

When I got to the hospital, I saw this woman, cold, emotionless, staring at Margoth, who had now passed on. I looked at this woman and said, “I remember you.”

She smiled at me and looked back at Margoth while she stood over her body with a cold stare, while everyone else was sobbing.

Then I said, “You were always rude to her.”

She responded, “Now is not the time.”

I told her she should not be here. Margoth specifically said she did not want you to be here. I told her, “You are fake!”

Then I was taken out of the room.

Eventually, I was let back in the room by the sister to have my last glance at Margoth. I put my hand on her head and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

I walked out and could not keep walking, as I was shaking from the crying right outside the room. The sister embraced me for a few moments, and I could not walk away anyway at the time.

But eventually I did.

I went home, and so did Margoth, back to God.

Margoth taught me many things, but one of the last lessons I learned came from her passing. She showed me that family is who is there for you all the time, and those who love you and care for you unconditionally.

If I could go back, I would do things differently with her.

I thought she would see my son turn 20 years old, but she only saw my son turn 2. Her passing taught me that we can have plans, but God’s plans are greater.

In the end, family is who your soul chooses. Relatives are the people who you are related to by blood.

We do not pick our relatives. We pick our family.

Margoth was my family. I picked her, and she picked me.

She was my mom, and I was her son.

Margoth will continue to live through me and everything I do.

RIP Margoth Blanca Lazo (Mom) August 29, 1956 – August 12, 2026