Elena L. Hayes, 78, of New Port Richey, Florida, passed away on April 11, 2025.

As her eldest granddaughter, finishing this obituary has taken me some time. I’ve written it over and over, crafting sentences for chuckles and tears, only to erase them in search of something that felt truer to her. Writing this also means accepting a part of her departure that’s been hard to swallow—it means she’s really gone. It has been five months since she took her last breath. Obituaries are meant to talk about the person we loved, the loss we feel, and the legacy they left in those they cherished most. So, here it is: Elena deserves to be remembered in full color, as the woman she truly was: bold, witty, stubborn, and endlessly devoted to her family.

She had a no-nonsense attitude, enjoyed her way of doing things, and lived for her family. After retiring from a long nursing career, she created a strict routine: hair cut every four weeks, nail appointments every two, one big grocery trip a month with smaller trips in between. Her stylist and nail technician knew as much about her family as they did her preferences. Heaven forbid you mess with those routines—you’d get the full explanation of her “system” for stockpiling groceries, why certain brands were better, or why she drove across town to save a dollar. She even fooled Papa (Gerald D. Hayes, “Jerry”), the love of her life, for years by pouring store-brand chocolate syrup into a name-brand bottle—just to hear him swear he could taste the difference. She would beam with pride at having pulled one over on him.

Papa was truly her great love. High school sweethearts, they moved from New Jersey to Florida together and raised two daughters, Suzanne and Marie. They drove each other crazy, but it was the kind of crazy rooted in love and loyalty. Losing Papa was hard on us all, but Nanny kept his memory alive. She often began sentences with, “Your grandfather…” or “Papa would…” so that, even gone, he remained ever-present in her life.

Her love for family usually came with her trademark sass. If she didn’t like something—your beard, your hair, your couch, the new tattoo or piercing I would come home with, or your towel-folding skills—you were going to hear about it. But her critiques were just another way of showing love. If she helped you move, she’d boss you around, telling you how to set up your house, convinced she knew what you’d like better than you did. Her sarcasm and wit were inherited by all of us grandkids, and she took our own teasing in stride, knowing full well she was the source of it.

Elena came from a big family, and nothing made her happier than a full, noisy house—even if she nagged about cleaning for guests who’d been there a hundred times before. The more chaos, the better: pets of all kinds, babies learning to walk, grandkids and cousins piling in with friends in tow, voices raised as though we were all yelling over each other. She’d laugh at our family’s specialty—cake smashing—before nodding that the dogs would handle cleanup. Exhausted by the end of the night, she’d doze off in her chair while the house was still alive with noise, her heart glowing from the love around her.

Herbie, her four-legged “third child” with a wonky ear, could get away with things the grandkids never could. Toys scattered, accidents in the house—it was always “okay.” He filled the quiet spaces, kept her entertained, and gave her purpose. She patched up his stuffed animals when he tore them apart, laughing about how most were missing ears, tongues, and toes. He lived by her routine, and in turn, kept her in one.

As her grandchildren, we always knew she loved us, even if her love came wrapped in sarcasm, wit, or a not so subtle nudge in a direction she’d prefer we’d take. She proudly told anyone who would listen about her five grandchildren—Kirsten, Zachary, Brendan, Kelsi, and Logan—our photos displayed throughout her home like trophies.

Elena is survived by her daughters, Suzanne and Marie, and her grandchildren. She was predeceased by her beloved husband, Jerry, and their adored “grandkitty” Sasha. She brought wit, wisdom, and a sarcasm sharp enough to slice bread everywhere she went. For as long as we remain earthside, she will be deeply missed.