Birth date: Oct 21, 1949 Death date: Jul 11, 2025
Mr. Adloo, 75, passed away at Baylor Scott and White hospital in Dallas, Texas on July 11, 2025. He was born on October 21, 1949 in Shiraz, Iran. Read Obituary
He let me stay in his home for seven years, giving me the opportunity to know an incredible human being.
We went shopping together, ate meals side by side, and had long, meaningful conversations.
He often spoke about his father and how deeply he loved him—so much so that he named his eldest son after him.
One night, I suddenly broke down crying, remembering my uncle who had passed away a few months earlier. I still remember how Abdi quietly pulled me into his arms without saying a word, calmed me down.
He was incredibly kind, deeply selfless, and always full of life—talking and laughing out loud.
I remember how he could fall asleep effortlessly anytime he wanted, while I struggled to sleep. Once I asked him, “How do you fall asleep so easily?” He smiled and said, “Don’t think about anything. When I go to sleep, I think about nothing.”
I tried it—and it worked!
Abdi was truly like a father to me.
So many times I smiled and felt grateful just knowing he was in my life—like the time I got into a car accident. He rushed to be by my side, brought me home, and stayed with me through every step until I got a new car. And that was just one of many times I felt his love and support.
I’m deeply sorry that during his last two years, I had moved to another city and couldn’t be there for him the way he had always been there for me.
In April, I visited him to congratulate him on his new home. We talked about many things, including his love for Shayan and how determined he was to beat his illness so that Shayan wouldn’t grow up without a father.
He truly fought until the very end, and I know in my heart he wanted to keep fighting—because he was a natural-born warrior.
He was a real man—rare and precious in today’s world. A gem whose loss is a deep sorrow for all who knew him.
The last conversation we had, he ended with a joke that made me laugh—just like always.
Thank you for everything, Abdi.
Your love will live in my heart forever.
He let me stay in his home for seven years, and during those years, I had the opportunity to know an incredible human.
We went shopping together, ate meals side by side, and had long, meaningful conversations.
He often spoke about his father and how deeply he loved him—so much so that he named his eldest son after him.
One night, I suddenly broke down crying, remembering my uncle who had passed away a few months earlier. I still remember how Abdi quietly pulled me into his arms without saying a word and calmed me down.
He was incredibly kind, deeply selfless, and always full of life—talking and laughing out loud.
I remember how he could fall asleep effortlessly anytime he wanted, while I struggled to sleep. Once I asked him, “How do you fall asleep so easily?” He smiled and said, “Don’t think about anything. When I go to sleep, I think about nothing.”
I tried it—and it worked!
Abdi was truly like a father to me.
So many times I smiled and felt grateful just knowing he was in my life—like the time I got into a car accident. He rushed to be by my side, brought me home, and stayed with me through every step until I got a new car. And that was just one of many times I felt his love and support.
I’m deeply sorry that during his last two years, I had moved to another city and couldn’t be there for him the way he had always been there for me.
In April, I visited Mr. Adloo to congratulate him on his new home. We talked about many things, including his love for Shayan and how determined he was to beat his illness so that Shayan wouldn’t grow up without a father.
He truly fought until the very end, and I know in my heart he wanted to keep fighting—because he was a natural-born warrior.
He was a real man—rare and precious in today’s world. A gem whose loss is a deep sorrow for all who knew him.
The last conversation we had, he ended with a joke that made me laugh—just like always.
Thank you for everything, Abdi.
Your love will live in my heart forever.
We shared so many sweet and beautiful days together.
He was like a real father to me—he let me stay in his home for seven years, and during those years, we shared our days and nights.
We went shopping together, ate meals side by side, and had long, meaningful conversations.
He often spoke about his father and how deeply he loved him—so much so that he named his eldest son after him.
One night, I suddenly broke down crying, remembering my uncle who had passed away a few years earlier. I still remember how Abdi quietly pulled me into his arms without saying a word. He had lost his own father and understood how painful it is to lose someone you love.
He was incredibly kind, deeply selfless, and always full of life—talking and laughing out loud.
I remember how he could fall asleep effortlessly anytime he wanted, while I struggled to sleep. Once I asked him, “How do you fall asleep so easily?” He smiled and said, “Don’t think about anything. When I go to sleep, I think about nothing.”
I tried it—and it worked!
Abdi was truly like a father to me.
So many times I smiled and felt grateful just knowing he was in my life—like the time I got into a car accident. He rushed to be by my side, brought me home, and stayed with me through every step until I got a new car. And that was just one of many times I felt his love and support.
I’m deeply sorry that during his last two years, I had moved to another city and couldn’t be there for him the way he had always been there for me.
In April, I visited him to congratulate him on his new home, we talked about many things, including his love for Shayan and how determined he was to beat his illness so that Shayan wouldn’t grow up without a father.
He truly fought until the very end, and I know in my heart he wanted to keep fighting—because he was a natural-born warrior.
He was a real man—rare and precious in today’s world. A gem whose loss is a deep sorrow for all who knew him.
The last conversation I had with him, he ended with a joke that made me laugh—just like always.
Thank you for everything, Abdi.
Your love will live in my heart forever.
