Olivia Culpo paid tribute to her longtime friend and real estate agent Barry Peele, who passed away at the age of 61.
The actress from Griselda put together a sweet Instagram slideshow with pictures of the couple taken over time.
“@barrypeele [heart]U, my life will never be the same without you,” she wrote as a caption for the picture.
The cause of Barry’s passing is still a mystery.
In comments, followers of 51-year-old Sofia have been sending the real estate agent their condolences.
internet following his demise.
“It saddens me greatly to inform you that our dear friend and colleague Barry Peele has unexpectedly passed away,” Christian said.
“Barry served as the company’s committed and informed representative for a considerable amount of time. He will be remembered as a lovely person who lived life to the fullest and cherished the time he spent with his closest friends, many of whom were also his clients.
Many of you have worked right next to him. Without a doubt, we will miss him. I hope you’re at peace, Gary.
Barry was a producer as well as a real estate agent who first rose to prominence in that field.
He contributed to the 2005 documentary Rize, which won the Golden Kinnaree Award for Best Documentary.
Furthermore, he made a contribution to the 2008 movie I Am Because We Are.
I Allowed a Homeless Woman to Stay in My Garage—One Day I Walked in Unannounced and Was Shocked by What I Saw
I tapped the steering wheel, trying to shake the weight on my chest, when I spotted a disheveled woman digging through a trash can. I slowed down, drawn in by her grim determination.
She looked fragile yet fierce, fighting for survival. Without thinking, I pulled over, rolled down my window, and asked, “Do you need help?”
Her response was sharp but tired: “You offering?”
“I just saw you there,” I admitted, stepping out. “It didn’t seem right.”
“What’s not right is life,” she scoffed, crossing her arms. “You don’t strike me as someone who knows much about that.”
“Maybe not,” I replied, then asked if she had a place to stay.
“No,” she said, and I felt compelled to offer my garage as a temporary home. To my surprise, she accepted, albeit reluctantly.
Over the next few days, we shared meals and conversations. Lexi’s sharp wit broke through my loneliness, but I could sense her hidden pain.
One afternoon, I barged into the garage and froze. There, sprawled across the floor, were grotesque paintings of me—chains, blood, a casket. Nausea hit me.
That night, I confronted her. “What are those paintings?”
Her face went pale. “I didn’t mean for you to see them. I was just… angry.”
“So you painted me as a monster?” I demanded.
She nodded, shame in her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I struggled to forgive her. “I think it’s time for you to go.”
The next morning, I helped her pack and drove her to a shelter, giving her some money. Weeks passed, and I felt the loss of our connection.
Then, a package arrived—another painting. This one was serene, capturing a peace I hadn’t known. Inside was a note with Lexi’s name and number.
My heart raced as I called her. “I got your painting… it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I didn’t know if you’d like it,” she replied.
“You didn’t owe me anything,” I said, reflecting on my own unfairness.
“I’m sorry for what I painted,” she admitted. “You were just… there.”
“I forgave you the moment I saw that painting. Maybe we could start over.”
“I’d like that,” she said, a smile evident in her voice.
We made plans to meet again, and I felt a flicker of hope for what could be.
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