Rogelio Guerra Vasquez
The Monster Who Walked Through the Door
The monster wasn’t hiding under my bed; he walked through the front door. Rogelio, a man who was supposed to be a loving husband and father, was anything but. To the world, he might have seemed ordinary, but behind closed doors, he was a tyrant who thrived on fear, control, and violence.
I never called him “Dad.” To me, he was simply Rogelio. From my earliest memories, everything had to be done his way. If it wasn’t, my mom would “get in trouble.” His control wasn’t just about dominance—it was about complete submission. He was physically, verbally, and mentally abusive. The threats he made and the hateful words he spoke cut as deeply as the physical beatings. For 20 years, from the time she was 18 until he murdered her at age 38, Rogelio’s words and actions broke my mother down.
He treated her as if she were less than human. To Rogelio, my mom’s needs, her pain, and even her life were insignificant. He didn’t even care enough to go to the hospital for the birth of any of his children—not for me, not for any of us. When my mom brought us into this world, she did it alone, without the support of her husband.
Here’s just one example of how indifferent he was to her suffering: After giving birth to one of her children, she began hemorrhaging while home alone, caring for her newborn baby. Rogelio was outside, washing his car, completely unsympathetic to her life-threatening condition. Family members who walked into the house found her pale as a sheet, leaving a trail of bloody towels as she tried to clean up her own blood. Rogelio didn’t lift a finger to help. He stood by as they rushed her to the hospital, where she needed a blood transfusion to survive. He didn’t follow them, didn’t check on her—he stayed home, indifferent.
That indifference defined him. He isolated her from family and confined her to the borders of the yard. She wasn’t allowed to drive and had no social life. Her outings were controlled, limited to trips with him to the grocery store or to pay bills. She hated it. She often complained about feeling “stuck in the house all the time,” a prisoner in her own home
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My mom’s earring holes were a constant reminder of Rogelio’s cruelty. One night, in a fit of rage, he ripped her earrings out, tearing through her earlobes and leaving them permanently split. It made it impossible for her to wear earrings again. But I remember her carefully cutting a tiny piece of clear scotch tape, placing it over her damaged earlobes, just so she could punch an earring through and hide the evidence of his violence. She did this daily—a quiet, heartbreaking act that showed her determination to hold on to some semblance of normalcy despite the pain he caused.
You may ask yourself, why did she stay? But I always ask back, why did he have to hit her? She stayed because she was scared. Rogelio’s threats weren’t empty, and the violence he inflicted made her believe those threats would become reality if she tried to leave. He told her if she left again, he would kill her. *And here we are.
The social dynamics of the 70s, 80s, and 90s were far different from today. Back then, domestic violence wasn’t widely talked about. There were no hashtags, no social media campaigns, and few resources for victims. It was a time when the mentality was often, “You made your bed, now lie in it.” Women like my mom were left to suffer in silence, with little hope of help or escape.
Rogelio controlled everything—her money, her freedom, her entire life. She wasn’t allowed to drive, no independence, and no way to leave with three little kids depending on her. And beyond the physical control, he broke her down emotionally, convincing her she was worthless.
When she did get brave enough to leave a handful of times, Rogelio always found us. He would beg, threaten, and manipulate her into coming back.
What breaks my heart the most is reading her diary and seeing how she felt about herself. It took me years to get through it because every page was a reminder of her pain.
HE BROKE HER
Her page is only a glimpse into the pain she endured. It reveals not just her sadness, but also the constant betrayal she faced. Rogelio cheated on her—again and again. She even wrote about Mona. (Who the hell was Mona?) He stripped away her confidence and her sense of self while being unfaithful and cruel.
Let’s talk about Friday nights—they were the hardest. The anxiety in the house was unbearable. Rogelio wouldn’t come straight home from work—he would cash his check, go to the bar or a friend’s house, and drink until he was ready to come home. By then, he was drunk and looking for a fight. It didn’t matter if it was something trivial from the week or if there was no reason at all—he always found a way to unleash his anger on my mom.
I remember waking up many times to the sound of her crying and screaming. I would walk in on him hitting her, and sometimes my presence was enough to make him stop, but not right away. I became her security blanket; the only small buffer she had against him.
Rogelio’s family wasn’t blind to the abuse. Early on, when my mom worked at Ramada—her only job—Rogelio’s mom, sisters and brother worked there too. When he started his tantrums, my mom would go to his mother for help, and he would cool off for a little while. But it never lasted. That job was very short-lived, like any small relief she ever found. His family knew what was happening in our household, like they knew what Rogelio did before he came to the US, but they treated my mom as an outsider.
I learned it wasn’t because my mom wasn’t Mexican—it was just how they were. Rogelio's brother Ruben’s wife, Rose, was treated the same way. The whispers and gossip in the kitchen, the passive-aggressive comments while my mom was sitting there—they all knew and didn’t care. The difference was that Ruben didn’t tolerate the way his family treated Rose. But Rogelio? He didn’t care.
As any mother would do, she tried really hard to hide everything, but I saw too much. I saw the fear in her eyes, I saw the bruises she tried to hide. I saw how hard she worked to make everything perfect, knowing it would never be enough for him. My mom was stuck in a cycle of fear and control, constantly trying to escape but never fully able to break free.
And this is the monster his family has been hiding all these years. Proud of him enough to list him as a “surviving sibling” in a recent obituary for his sister, they knowingly acknowledge his existence. How do they know he’s surviving? The obituary accurately lists two siblings who have passed away since my mom’s murder, placing them in the correct category of “proceeded in death.” Yet, they somehow categorize Rogelio as surviving in a meticulous chronicle of their family. Are they claiming not to know anything, while also keeping track of him in the family lineage? It’s a glaring contradiction that speaks volumes.
By listing him publicly, they have revealed what I’ve always known—and they continue to shield him. While my mom’s life was stolen, her story hidden in silence, they protect the man who took everything from her.
Rogelio wasn’t just abusive—he was a coward. He thrived on tearing others down to make himself feel powerful. And after 27 years on the run, he’s still running, hiding like a coward from the justice my mom deserves.
The monster who walked through the door couldn’t destroy her light. Rogelio may have tried to break her—physically, emotionally, and spiritually—but he couldn’t extinguish the love, strength, and resilience that defined my mom. Her light was her essence, the love she gave us, the joy she created even in the darkest moments, and the strength she showed every day. That light still shines through me and everyone who loved her. He couldn’t take that away. He’s not my monster anymore. He’s not my shadow and doesn't haunt me anymore. Because light always outshines the darkness, and the love I have for my momma shines so bright and will ALWAYS be greater than his cruelty. I will always choose to be my momma’s voice. And I will always fight for her (as I did while she was alive) until justice is served for her, for her memory, and for her legacy.
Let’s Have a Conversation
To anyone reading this: you might not know the full truth about the dynamics in our household or the kind of person Rogelio truly was. Maybe you’ve heard a different version of events, or perhaps you’ve been unaware of the pain and abuse my mom endured. If you have questions, if you’ve been told something different, or if you have even the smallest piece of information about Rogelio’s whereabouts, I encourage you to reach out. That is the whole purpose of this website—to gather the truth and uncover the details that could bring justice. No matter how small or insignificant the information might seem, it could be the missing piece I need. Let’s have a conversation. You can remain anonymous if that makes you feel more comfortable. What matters is the truth—and your voice could help honor my mom’s memory and bring justice after all these years. Please don’t hesitate to share.