This narrative originates from an intimate and profoundly moving conversation with Gloria Cazares, a devoted forty‑two‑year‑old home healthcare nurse from Uvalde, Texas. Her life was irreversibly altered when her daughter, Jackie, a joyful and bright nine‑year‑old fourth grader, was killed during the devastating tragedy at Robb Elementary School. Gloria’s story, told with courage and tenderness, is featured in the Netflix short documentary *All The Empty Rooms*, which had its premiere on December 1. The dialogue that follows has been carefully refined for both length and clarity, ensuring that her voice and perspective remain at the heart of this recollection.
Gloria begins by speaking about her husband, Javier, who is forty‑five. Since the day their daughter passed, he has entered Jackie’s bedroom every single morning without fail. For him, the space serves as a sacred refuge — a bridge between the living and the lost, a quiet sanctuary where he can still sense her nearness. Standing amidst her unaltered belongings brings him solace in a way nothing else can. Each visit begins with a ritual they once shared: he softly recites the nightly prayer that father and daughter would whisper together before sleep, invoking protection from the angels in every direction. Though the rhyme is simple, uttering it seems to momentarily lift the crushing weight of absence, stirring faint echoes of her laughter in the still air. Yet even with these gestures of connection, both parents find the silence excruciating; the room should be filled with the vibrancy, innocence, and laughter that once animated it.
They have preserved Jackie’s room precisely as it was on the morning of May 24, 2022 — the day she kissed her parents goodbye and walked off to school for what was supposed to be an ordinary day. Nothing has been rearranged or discarded. To Gloria and Javier, the act of keeping things untouched is not a refusal to move forward but a tribute to memory — an expression of reverence for a little girl whose energy and wit filled their home. Every object within those four walls has become a vessel of remembrance and love, symbolizing the life that was so suddenly extinguished.
The décor itself reflects Jackie’s vivacity and imagination. The walls, painted in shades of purple and pink — hues she adored — are outlined by a chain of blinking LED lights that still illuminate the ceiling each night, casting a gentle, dreamlike glow. Javier, whose profession as a glazer complements his artistic talent, had once surprised his daughter by painting a luminous unicorn on one wall. Using fluorescent pigments that gleam after dark, he created a scene that seemed almost magical; beneath the unicorn, a tiny fairy swings gracefully from a heart‑shaped vine. Jackie treasured these details, often running her fingers over the outline as though the figures were alive.
On her neatly made bed lie soft plush animals and two specially cherished Build‑A‑Bears, each holding within its fabric casing a recording of Jackie’s unmistakable voice. In one bear, she can be heard cheerfully singing a favorite tune; in the other, her bright laughter spills out as she plays affectionately with the family dogs. These echoes of her joy, now summoned by pressing a button, are bittersweet — painful yet precious reminders of innocence preserved through technology.
Jackie’s fascination with the city of Paris is evident throughout the room. Having adored the animated television series *Miraculous*, which takes place there, she dreamed of visiting the French capital one day. Her bedding features pink and white tones embellished with tiny Eiffel Towers, and scattered across her shelves are Parisian trinkets — an Eiffel Tower–shaped jewelry box, miniature figurines, and neatly arranged souvenirs suggestive of the city she so longed to see. When her parents enter the room, these details beckon memories of the child who eagerly planned imaginary trips and spoke of glittering lights far beyond Uvalde.
Friends and teachers remember Jackie as an unusually compassionate and responsible young girl, one who seemed to have a natural instinct to care for others. Gloria recalls how at birthday parties, rather than centering herself amid the festivities, Jackie would volunteer to serve the ice cream or carefully slice the cake, ensuring that everyone else was happy before taking her turn. She possessed both enthusiasm and intellect, a combination that made her parents beam with pride. On the morning of the tragedy, Javier and Gloria had attended a special assembly at her school recognizing students for their accomplishments — a testament to her dedication and curiosity. That gathering, they would later realize, was the final time they would see their daughter alive.
A photograph taken at exactly 11:08 a.m., showing Jackie alongside childhood friends, remains preserved on Gloria’s phone. Barely twenty‑five minutes later, at 11:33 a.m., the unthinkable began. Gloria had returned to her nursing duties and was preparing to leave a patient’s home when she received a message from a coworker close to noon: reports were spreading that an active shooter had entered Robb Elementary. A surge of terror overwhelmed her as instinct took control. Racing toward the school, she turned onto the main highway and immediately noticed a stream of police vehicles speeding in the same direction. Without hesitation, she followed them.
Upon reaching the vicinity, she parked a block away, joining a growing crowd of frantic parents who stood facing the section of campus where the fourth‑grade classrooms were located. Moments later, the sound of gunfire ripped through the air — a chaos of noise and disbelief. Time seemed suspended in confusion and fear.
Javier soon arrived, and together they waited for news as law enforcement officers ushered surviving children onto buses to reunite them with their families. But Jackie was nowhere among them. Desperate for information, their niece, who was closer to the local hospital, rushed there after hearing that wounded students were being transported for emergency care. She later described seeing an ambulance pull into the emergency bay carrying a small girl on a stretcher. She looked heartbreakingly like Jackie. When Gloria and Javier reached the hospital, they were met with agonizing silence. Hours passed with no answers. Finally, around four o’clock in the afternoon, two Texas Rangers and a chaplain approached softly, explaining that nurses needed to speak privately with them. In that moment, every parent’s nightmare became their reality: the child matching Jackie’s description was indeed their daughter. She had been taken from them forever.
Years have passed since that afternoon, yet grief does not fade; it merely changes shape. Gloria describes it as a constant presence, a weight that settles in her chest. Some days she manages to carry it without faltering, performing daily tasks as though treading water. On other days, it crashes down with renewed force, reawakening raw pain as vivid as in the beginning. What eases this cavernous ache, albeit slightly, is speaking about Jackie — recalling her warmth, her humor, her boundless curiosity, and the deep love that defined their family. Sharing stories becomes both an act of remembrance and a fragile form of healing.
When Gloria and Javier step into Jackie’s bedroom today, their gaze often rests upon the Paris‑themed comforter, symbolizing both the dreams she held and the milestones she will never reach. They imagine the trip they might have taken together — perhaps as a graduation gift many years later — wandering through the city she once adored from afar. That vision remains, like her room, suspended in time: a tender reminder of love enduring beyond loss, and a silent call for a world where no parent has to preserve a child’s room as a memorial.
Sourse: https://www.businessinsider.com/daughter-killed-in-school-shooting-bedroom-shrine-2025-12
