December 23, 2020, was the worst day of my life.

That evening, I received a phone call—something had happened to my son, Tyler. In a panic, I rushed to Methodist Hospital in Brooklyn. While still in the car, my son Shomari called and told me the words no mother should ever hear: Tyler didn’t make it. He had died in the ambulance on the way to the emergency room.

All I could say was, “Don’t tell me my son is gone. Don’t tell me my baby is gone.”

When I arrived at the hospital, family members were already there. We were told to wait in the chapel for the doctor. I felt numb. Tyler’s girlfriend, Ashley, was screaming. When the doctor finally came in, he said I couldn’t hold my baby—because there was an active investigation. Tyler’s body was considered evidence.

We left the hospital. As we drove past the place where Tyler was attacked, I saw yellow crime scene tape and police officers on the corner. That’s when it truly hit me: my baby had been murdered.

When we got home, the house was full of family and friends. We hugged, cried, and tried to make sense of what had happened. None of us could truly grasp that Tyler was gone.

As I began planning my son’s funeral, I knew deep in my heart that I had a new purpose: to carry on Tyler’s name and legacy. Ashley was the one who came up with the name for the foundation: Long Live King Kobe.

— Sherma Chambers