Every morning, Sergio Ayala would braid her daughter's hair and send them to school to go to work.

He likes to work as a site supervisor at his brother-in-law’s pest control company. But he wants to own a business and is learning to be a barber. He hopes to set up a college savings fund for his three daughters and toddler son.

In January, this dream was shattered. His family believes that he contracted the coronavirus while practicing haircutting skills in people's homes.

Ayala died of COVID-19 when she was 37 years old.

His partner Lizeth Sanchez worried that she could not fill his vacancy.

"I thought, oh my goodness, what if I can't afford the education their father wants them to receive?" Sanchez said. "What if I can only afford the education of one of them? It scares me."

In California, young Latinos have a much higher rate of death from COVID-19 than whites and Asians. Young blacks also have a high mortality rate, but the gap between Latinos is the most obvious.

As more people get vaccinated, pandemic restrictions are lifted, and the economy rebounds, the families of the young Latinos who have died will feel the losses in the coming decades—not only grief, but also long-term financial difficulties.

It will be more difficult for their children to receive education and achieve upward mobility, which may widen the class divide in the coming decades.

Covers issues, politics, culture, and lifestyles of Latino communities in Los Angeles, California, and other regions.

According to a study by the Department of Preventive Medicine at the University of Southern California, in California, Latinos between the ages of 20 and 54 are more than eight times more likely to die of COVID-19 than whites of the same age.

Many people, such as Ayala, died before the vaccine was widely available.

Christina Ramirez, a professor of biostatistics at the University of California, Los Angeles, said: "Latin Americans are being hit in every way." "This will be felt in the next few generations."

Ayala was raised by a single mother of Salvadoran immigrants in a small apartment in North Hollywood.

With the income from PestCal Exterminators, he saved enough money to buy a place in Panorama City. This is a townhouse with high ceilings-which he has always wanted-and enough to accommodate his growing family.

In addition to paying most of the household expenses and mortgages, he also took care of the girls and effectively arranged the morning routine after Sanchez went to work early. He spoils them with snacks or toys from the dollar store almost every day.

When the coronavirus invaded their small apartment, the children desperately protected their dad

There is little mystery about the worst spread of the coronavirus in Los Angeles County. The COVID-19 pandemic is hit hardest in the worst places with crowded housing.

After taking bereavement leave, Sanchez returned to her job in a medical device manufacturing company. Once Ayala becomes a mature hairdresser, she has been looking forward to returning to school and earning a degree in sociology.

"We hardly get [benefits] from hard work," she said.

Ayala's children-Janelly and Melanie, both 10 years old, Leanna, 7 years old, Sergio, 2 years old-they are too young to understand how their lives will be different as they grow older.

But late at night, Sanchez said that the girls couldn't sleep and cried to God: "Why is it him? Why can't it be someone else?"

For the 23-year-old Brianna Trejo, life has changed dramatically since her parents Cindy and Ruben Trejo died of COVID-19.

While studying anthropology at Southwestern College in Los Angeles, she lived in an apartment in Inglewood with them, grandmother and aunt.

Her father works with mentally ill patients, and her mother works in the hospital management department. Together, her parents paid most of the rent and bills for the family.

Her parents plan to buy a house next year, possibly in Arizona or Nevada. Trejo wants to transfer to a four-year university.

Ruben, 51, died on January 12. Cindy, 47, died the next day. Ruben had received his first dose of vaccine a few days ago.

Brianna, her aunt and grandmother still live in the same apartment, and they all stepped up to pay. She is learning how to build her credit score and is cutting luxury items such as home Netflix subscriptions.

Epidemic Portraits: The Latino Experience

This Abra led her family into the middle class. Then COVID threatened almost everything they did not act as gatekeepers before COVID. Now this family is struggling to survive

She started to feel pressure to continue her life and get a job, but her grief was not good. In class, she sometimes is absent-minded, thinking about all the things that need to be organized at home.

In August, she took a break from school to focus on her mental health. She is applying for an administrative job, but has not found a job yet.

"They are really the ones who try to balance all the bills," she said of her parents. "This is what I have to take on now. I have to grow up within a year."

For a long time, researchers have been observing a phenomenon known as the Latino Paradox. Despite difficult access to health care and higher poverty and diabetes rates, the average life expectancy of Latinos is longer than that of whites.

"This has dealt a heavy blow to us, especially because he is still young and he has a lot of things to do. He is trying to do more of what he has not done."

So many Latinos have died prematurely due to COVID-19 that researchers want to know whether this paradox holds.

Jay Xu, a biostatistics researcher at the University of California, Los Angeles, said that as of December 1, Latinos in California have lost a total of approximately 370,000 years of potential lifespan due to COVID-19.

Researchers believe that the vulnerability of young Latin Americans to COVID-19 stems from the combined effect of socioeconomic and health factors.

Rita Hamad, deputy director of the Center for Health Equity at the University of California, San Francisco, said that lack of medical insurance or high deductible coverage may cause people to delay visits to the hospital, increasing the likelihood of serious and fatal cases. .

Latinos are more likely to live in crowded multi-generational housing with older immigrant relatives, have difficulty accessing healthcare, and work in important industries that require their presence in person.

The "essential" price: Latino service staff bear the brunt of Coronavirus

Many essential workers-cashiers, truck drivers, meat packers-are Latino. They cannot stay at home. They are being hit hard by the new coronavirus.

Researchers say they are also more likely to live in heavily polluted communities, with higher rates of diabetes, high blood pressure and obesity-conditions related to severe cases of COVID-19.

The vaccination rate for Latinos is the lowest in the state's population, especially young Latinos.

Reasons include misinformation on social media and inflexible work schedules, with little time for appointments. Public health experts and community advocates are trying to educate Latinos that they need to be vaccinated, especially because they have lost too much due to the virus.

The chain reaction of every death is profound. Some young Latinos support their families at home and abroad.

Every two weeks, 38-year-old Jorge Ortega gets off work as a delivery driver, and sometimes drives three hours to Tijuana at midnight to visit his girlfriend Viviana Se Viviana Seguro Gaitan and their newborn son.

During the 48 hours they were together, the couple would enjoy every moment, even sitting on the sofa watching a movie all day.

As more black and Latino men in Los Angeles County are vaccinated against COVID-19, mistrust lingers

Vaccination rates have risen, but there is concern that black and Latino men will continue to wait until they almost die of COVID-19 or watch people they know die before being vaccinated.

After the weekend, Ortega rushed back to Los Angeles to work on Monday morning.

After a 12-hour shift, he returned to his apartment in Los Angeles, where he lived with his mother Yolanda Ortega and 14-year-old son.

In these two houses, Ortega paid rent and bought groceries and other necessities for the two most important women in his life.

In January, Ortega died suddenly of COVID-19. Like Ayala and Trejos, the vaccine is not yet widely available in his age group.

"He wants to initiate the legal process to become a US citizen," said 38-year-old Seguro Gaitan. "We plan to get married and move in together. We plan to buy a house. For the children."

In PestCal's North Hollywood office, Ayala can still be felt.

One month after his death, his corner cubicle was filled with his belongings, including a message written by one of his daughters on a yellow post-it note: "Hi, my name is Melanie Ayala ."

His work boots and green latex gloves with his nickname "Surge" written on them, in graffiti style letters, are placed on the roof of the shed.

In the lounge, Ayala's brother-in-law Kevin Campos stared at a memorial portrait, with a yellow halo hovering over Ayala's head.

After the 2008 recession, Campos recruited Ayala to help him start PestCal. Campos recalled that the two men were often knocked on the door when soliciting customers.

Before he realized his brother-in-law's haircut dream, he had planned to hand over a branch of the company to Ayala.

Campos maintained a straight face and a relaxed tone in the office. He wants to be a rock for his family.

He was thinking what would happen to his wife and son if he died suddenly. Just in case, he strengthened his life insurance plan and retirement investment portfolio. Sometimes, he would hide in a room alone so they would not see him crying.

Ayala’s children often spend weekends with Campos and his family. His wife Nidia Campos is Ayala's younger sister.

"This has dealt a heavy blow to us, especially because he is still young and he has a lot of things to do," she said. "He is trying to do more things he didn't do."

Learn about the basic California newsletter we send out six days a week.

You may occasionally receive promotional content from the Los Angeles Times.

Alejandra Reyes-Velarde is a subway reporter for the Los Angeles Times. Previously, she wrote for the San Francisco Business Times and the Sacramento Bee. She graduated from the University of California, Los Angeles, is from Duarte, California, and her mother tongue is Spanish.

More from the Los Angeles Times

Anti-Semitic letter, unknown substance found in West Side Synagogue

Rain prompted flood relief, trees collapsed and forced evacuation

The Los Angeles School Board approves the new LAUSD Supt contract. Alberto Carvalho

Adolescent mental health crisis: what parents should pay attention to