Roy Robert Hughes, 66, of Media, Pennsylvania, passed away on January 14, 2026, surrounded by his family.
Roy was not the kind of man who needed to narrate his life. He lived it with the kind of steadiness that becomes a family’s backbone over time through consistent demonstration of love, selflessness, gratitude, and compassion for those around him.
Roy understood something simple and profound: family was above all else, and family meant being together. Not just in the big moments, but in the ordinary ones that quietly become his legacy. He loved the camaraderie of a house full of people, the way conversation stretches late into the night over a bourbon and a cigar when everyone feels safe enough to linger. He loved the rhythm of it: staying up a little too late, laughing a little too long.
Married for 43 years, Roy and Debbie were best friends who did life side by side, from the big milestones to the everyday errands, simply happiest when they were together.
Debbie’s parents, Joanne Moretti and her late husband, James “Jim” Moretti, were also a steadfast presence in Roy’s life, offering a steady example of love, loyalty, and family from the day they welcomed him in.
Roy loved in practical ways. He showed love by showing up and leading by thoughtful example.
He showed up for his son Tim in the season that demanded it most, when his daughter Rita was fighting for her life and awaiting a heart transplant. Roy may not have learned every medical detail, but he did what mattered. He was there, steady and present, through the long days and the hardest moments, offering the kind of comfort that does not come from explanations, but from unwavering love.
He showed up for Dan, his eldest son, by leading with love of family, gratitude, and a deep appreciation for others. Roy taught by example what it looks like to live a life of faith, family, and fun, and to move through the world carefully, thoughtfully, and with compassion. The blessing of a father’s love is learned in the day to day, and Roy did not falter. Even when Dan roped him into “helping” with some crazy house project, Roy was there, steady, present, and all in.
He showed up for Steve on Eagles Sundays in a way that became the ritual itself. Roy was cautiously optimistic (as most Eagles fans are), the kind of hope that was measured and realistic and sometimes mistaken for pessimism. And if you asked Roy during a game, he might tell you he was steady, but the truth is the Eagles could draw out a little more emotion than he liked to admit. He had his moments: a raised voice, a bigger reaction, a quick outburst that always passed as quickly as it came. Still, Sunday after Sunday, Roy in his Kelly green jersey was someone Steve could rely on, the familiar presence beside him, the commentary, the shared highs and frustrations, and the simple comfort of knowing they would do it all again next week.
He showed up for his daughters-in-law in ways they will never forget.
For Brenna, he was a faithful companion in small joys. She was his Starbucks buddy, the person who understood the comfort of a familiar cup of coffee and the quiet connection of a simple routine. Brenna also had a line she often said to her son Timmy, “Good boy, good listener, good friend,” which never failed to earn Roy an eye roll. Later, when Roy was being a little stubborn during his treatments, Brenna started saying it to him, too, just to get him to giggle, even though he was not exactly being the best listener, boy, or friend in that moment.
For Shelly, when she started her business, Roy drove her to pick out the perfect Mac computer and all the accessories, then continued as her personal, uncompensated IT guy for years after. It was classic Roy. He did not make a speech about support. He simply supported.
For Monica, he stepped in with tenderness and dignity when she needed him. After she injured her back and could not drive, Roy became her chauffeur from work. And in the lighter moments, Roy loved that Monica was always up for crab legs or seafood with him, a shared enthusiasm he never took for granted. Calamari, though, was where Monica drew the line, much to Roy’s dismay.
Roy’s love also had a playful side, especially with his grandchildren. To them, he was Boppy. He had his little tricks, his small ways of making them laugh, and a steady presence that made them feel safe. And he had a soft spot, too, the kind that showed up in a quiet handful of M&Ms slipped to a grandchild, finger to his lips, reminding them, “Shhh.” He was also, famously, a man who cared about keeping things clean, especially the kitchen that he and Debbie waited decades to renovate. The grandkids, in the way toddlers do, tested that devotion with dirty shoes and flying food, and Roy would worry about the grout like it was a living thing that needed protecting. It became part of the family’s shared laughter, one of those small, unmistakably Roy details that proves a person was real and fully himself.
Roy’s sense of humor was never loud, but it was unmistakably his. One of the most “Roy” moments happened on the drive to his final radiation appointment. His two brothers-in-law were debating the GPS, a little confused, voices starting to rise as each person tried to figure out the right turn. Roy listened, stayed quiet, and held the calm in the car until it mattered. Then, with perfect timing, he said, “You missed your turn.” A small smirk followed, and the whole car settled into laughter.
It was a small moment, but it captured so much of him. Roy was never the one trying to be the center of attention. He listened, let the moment play out, and then stepped in right when it mattered with a perfectly timed comment and that familiar smirk, quietly sarcastic in the way that made the people who knew him laugh first.
He loved his comforts and his rituals. Coffee done right, things kept orderly, a golf outing with his sons, and the satisfaction of a new gadget in hand were all part of his rhythm. Above all, he loved time at the shore in Longport, not only for the beach, but for the feeling of being together with friends and family, the nights that stretched a little longer, the conversations that lingered, and the ease of everyone gathered and safe. He also loved seafood and took his opportunities for it whenever he could, because Debbie, with good-natured firmness, preferred that it not become a regular at-home tradition. Roy did not mind. He just smiled, ordered it when he was out, and enjoyed it like one more small joy in a life full of practical compromises. He held his faith close and his church close, showing up for Sundays because some things mattered enough to be consistent.
Roy also built a professional legacy that reflected the same traits he brought to his family: adaptability, grit, and commitment.
It lands differently when you loved a man who spent much of his younger life focused on providing, doing what it took, carrying responsibility without complaint. Roy built the foundation first. Later, he and Debbie began to lean into what that foundation was always meant to hold: weekend trips, cruises, small adventures, time together that was not postponed. The message now is not guilt. It is permission. It is a reminder from their life together that tomorrow is not guaranteed, and love is meant to be lived while you have the chance.
In the end, Roy did not leave behind only memories. He left behind a standard. A way of loving that looked like dependability. A way of providing that looked like reinvention. A way of being family that looked like showing up, in big crises and in ordinary weekends, in hospital rooms and in living rooms, in the middle of projects and in the middle of games.
In his final words, Roy gave Debbie the simplest truth he had carried all along:
“You are my angel.”
Now family and friends hold this with them. Roy is now Debbie’s angel, and he is all of ours.
Roy was preceded in death by his parents, Roy Lee Hughes and Rita Patricia Hughes.
Roy is survived by his beloved wife, Debbie Hughes; his children Daniel Robert Hughes (Monica), Timothy Roy Hughes (Brenna), and Steven James Hughes (Shelly); and his grandchildren Cadence, Emily, Timmy, Rita, Tucker, and Otto.
He is also survived by close family Roland and Chris Bailey; Mike and Mary Moretti; Jim and Glenda Moretti; and Joanne Moretti; as well as dozens of nieces and nephews.
His visitation will be held on Wednesday, January 21, 2026 from 9:30 a.m.- 10:45 a.m. at St. John Chrysostom Catholic Church, 617 S. Providence Rd. Wallingford, PA 19086. with his funeral mass to follow at 11:00 a.m.
Interment to follow at SS. Peter and Paul Cemetery.
In lieu of flowers, memorial contributions may be made to the organizations that saved Roy’s granddaughter’s life: Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia Foundation, Cardiac Intensive Care Unit, P.O. Box 781352, Philadelphia, PA 19178-1352, or at CHOP Foundation (be sure to designate the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit), or to Gift of Life Donor Program, 401 North 3rd Street, Philadelphia, PA 19123, or at Give to Gift of Life.
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