Some Stars Shine So Brightly That Their Glow Never Fades
Rosaura Magdalena Barbosa was born on February 15, 2000, and from the very beginning, she was a radiant light. The doctor joked that she was born waving, eager to greet the world—a warmth she carried throughout her life. As a baby, she was all smiles, and as a child, those smiles only grew, filling every space with joy.
In middle school, Rosaura became an altar server at St. Rose of Lima Church, where she was an active and devoted member. But life changed when, at 13, our family moved from Safford to Tucson. Leaving behind her friends was difficult, but she adapted quickly. She first attended the Air and Space Academy, forming close friendships, and later transferred to Sonoran Science Academy on Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. There, she met people from all over the world, broadening her heart and mind.
During high school, Rosaura met her beloved dog, Gizmo. To her, he wasn’t just a pet—he was her baby. She often said she wouldn’t have biological children because so many already needed loving homes in foster care. She had seen the effects of the system firsthand, watching her maternal aunt battle addiction and her young cousins enter foster care. It impacted her deeply—she wanted to be part of the solution, to be a safe place for children in need.
At 16, she got her first job at Taco Bell. With her very first paycheck, she insisted on buying her little brother something special—Nike shoes. We had never been able to afford name brands, but she wanted to give him something we never had. She bought him the most expensive pair they carried, beaming with pride. Even now, years later, he keeps them in a box, cleaning them regularly—a cherished reminder of her love and generosity.
Rosaura loved school but felt its pressures. She was a perfectionist, dreaming of Ivy League colleges, but the weight of her expectations became overwhelming. After long talks about her mental health, she decided to take a break and focus on work. She started at Red Lobster and began mentioning a man who would sit at the bar, watching her and her coworkers. She found it odd, and so did we. Then, one day, she told us she had met someone. After she was killed, we learned the man who had been watching her was the same one who would end her life.
At first, he seemed like part of our family, always at our house, playing video games with our son, calling us “Mom” and “Dad.” He promised to love and protect her. When she turned 18, she told us she was moving in with him. I cried uncontrollably, feeling unsettled, but she reassured me. “Mom, you’re making me feel bad,” she said. I pulled myself together, though every part of me wanted her to wait.
She seemed happy at first, but then came the small signs of control. When she became an overnight manager at Jack in the Box near their apartment, he would sit in the lobby all night or walk her to and from work. At the time, it seemed like a sweet gesture—now, I see it for what it was. Over time, he stopped helping with Gizmo, stopped working as much, and let her carry the burden of their home. Yet she remained resilient—working full time, taking care of Gizmo, visiting us almost every other day.
Then, at the end of April, she had the opportunity to go to Disneyland with her Tio, Tia, and younger cousins. While she was away, a friend told her that he had been trying to see other girls. When she returned, it wasn’t just the betrayal that devastated her—it was what he had done to Gizmo.
She found her dog locked in a filthy apartment, starving, dehydrated, and suffering in the Arizona heat without air conditioning. That was it. “Mom, its one thing for him to disrespect me, but it’s another to do this to my baby,” she said. That night, she ended it. She called us to pick her up. As we arrived, she was walking down the sidewalk, Gizmo in her arms, with him trailing behind. She got in the car. He walked up to my window. “She’s leaving me, Mom,” he said. I told him to give her space.
That night, she slept in her childhood bedroom. In the morning, my husband saw her stepping out of her room. He smiled and hugged her. “I’m so happy you’re back,” he said.
Then she asked me to take her to the apartment. “I just want to end things on good terms and grab some stuff,” she said. “I got this, Mom. I’m an adult.” I asked if she wanted us to go in with her, but she insisted she’d be fine.
At noon, I texted: Are you okay?
“We’re just talking,” she replied.
A little later: Come get me.
We arrived, but she wasn’t outside. That wasn’t like her. We knocked. No answer. We called. Nothing. It felt like moving through molasses, like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. I called 911, but they dismissed my fears. “She always checks in,” I told them. Hours passed. Desperate, I posted her picture online, begging for help.
Then, as I sat outside her apartment, a neighbor hesitated before approaching my husband. “I didn’t tell you earlier but I saw her,” she said. “He was kicking her, dragging her by her hair into the apartment.”
Panic set in. I called 911 again. They still didn’t take me seriously. I handed the phone to the neighbor, my voice shaking. But I wasn’t waiting anymore.
My mother grabbed a stick. We were going in.
She broke the window. I climbed inside.
Time stood still.
There she was, lying on the floor next to her bed, as if she had just fallen asleep. Blood pooled beneath her.
My mind refused to accept it.
“She’s sleeping,” I thought. “She’s hurt, but she’s just sleeping.”
I did what any mother would do when their child is hurt—I held her.
And in that instant, I knew. She was gone.
Rosaura’s story should not have ended this way. She was love. She was light. She was my daughter. And she should still be here.