The Day Everything Changed
Mitch left early for work while I worked out in our basement. It was an unusual schedule for him—he was taking an “officer class” during the day and then heading on shift afterward. The older boys went to school, and my mom came over to watch our youngest, Ryan. I headed to work like it was any other Wednesday.
It’s strange how a day can feel so normal, yet burn itself into your memory. I remember bits and pieces so clearly—my mom taking Ryan to meet Paw Patrol characters downtown, and Mitch and I texting throughout the day about little things: where Evan’s soccer ball was, how he was feeling after strep earlier that week.
Everything felt routine.
An Ordinary Evening
After work, the evening felt just as ordinary. The boys and I sat down for dinner, and right as we began eating, a calendar alert went off—“4K Preview Night” in one hour. I had completely forgotten.
I quickly got the boys ready, and we headed out. On the way to the school, I called Mitch to let him know where we were headed and that I almost forgot! He didn’t answer.
Ryan could be quite the rambunctious 4-year-old, so I was a little nervous about how the event would go—but he was amazing. He loved seeing his new school, teachers, and classrooms. I was so proud of him (and relieved that we made it!). I snapped a picture of him standing outside the school and texted it to Mitch.
Still no response.
Driving home, I tried calling Mitch again, eager to tell him how great Ryan did. No answer. I remember saying to the boys in the car, “Daddy must be having a really busy night at work.”
Back at home, I decided Ryan’s big night deserved a celebration. I pulled a cookie ice cream cake from the freezer and started cutting slices. Then the doorbell rang.
The Knock at the Door
It wasn’t unusual—neighborhood kids were always coming over to play. The boys ran to the door, then came back into the kitchen saying, “Mommy, it’s some people for you.”
I was confused. When I walked to the door, I saw two uniformed firefighters—Ryan Lee and Ryan Weyers—and Traci Lee, Ryan’s wife, standing in our driveway next to a fire department vehicle. My heart dropped.
Ryan told me that Mitch had been hurt on a call and that I needed to come with them to the hospital right away. Traci would stay with the boys.
My heart was racing. I couldn’t wrap my head around what was happening. While Traci and Ryan were good friends of ours, my boys hadn’t spent much time with her lately, and I wanted someone else to come too—someone familiar and comforting for the kids. While calling a neighbor and close friend, the boys started asking questions:
“What’s going on?”
“What happened to Daddy?”
“Where are you going?”
I didn’t have answers.
I remember Evan trying to reassure himself, saying, “Well, he probably just fell and broke his leg or something…”
God, I wish.
The Ride to the Hospital
In the car, the Ryans told me what happened. Mitch had been shot on a medical call. He was at the hospital, and they were “working on him.” I instantly felt sick. I fought the urge to throw up the entire ride. I started making frantic phone calls—my best friend, my mom, my mother-in-law—asking them to meet me at the hospital.
As a nurse, and someone familiar with that hospital, my brain tried to rationalize. People survive gunshot wounds, I thought. He was probably in surgery. He might never be the same, but I assumed he was alive. I was worried, but not panicked. I wasn’t prepared for what was coming.
When we got to the hospital, I expected to head upstairs to the surgical floor. Instead, we went through the emergency room doors. Ryan told the front desk I was Mitch’s wife, and they immediately buzzed us back and led me to a private family room.
That’s when I knew.
The News No One Wants to Hear
The room was lined with firefighters—some I knew, some I didn’t. My mom was already there. I sat next to her as the ER doctor knelt in front of me. He looked me in the eyes and said something like, “He was shot in the chest. We did everything we could, but he didn’t make it.”
I felt my body go numb. I don’t remember crying. I remember dry heaving into a garbage can, maybe even throwing up. I kept saying the same things over and over:
“What the f***…”
“What am I going to do without him?”
“I don’t know life without him.”
They let me go in to see him. I brought my best friend, Maria, with me. It was just the three of us. Mitch looked the same—but still, and cold. I remember touching his face, his hands, and just whispering through my shock:
“What the f*, Mitch…”
Over and over again.
It didn’t feel real. I was in complete shock.
Later, I saw Mitch’s mom and her stepdad arrive in the hallway. I stepped outside the room just as the doctor told her that her son had died. Her scream—the way her body reacted—I can still see it, hear it. It was unbearable.
At one point, my mom asked if she could come in and be with me. I hesitated because she has a history of fainting when she gets overwhelmed, especially when it involves me or the grandkids. But she promised she’d be okay. She just needed to be there for me.
We all spent time with Mitch in that sterile emergency room, and all I could think was I’m going to be sick.
After I walked out of that room, everything became a blur. People telling me what to do, what decisions I needed to make—it felt like a checklist. And focusing on the checklist felt easier than feeling anything.
The very first thing on that list?
I had to go home and tell my children.
The Drive Home
The drive home from the hospital felt endless.
Maria was driving. My mom sat in the back seat. The silence was heavy. I remember saying how sad I felt for all of my children—but especially for Ryan. He had just turned four three days earlier. He was so young. Too young to hold on to real memories.
That’s still one of the hardest parts of all of this.
Ryan was Mitch’s little shadow. He looked like him, acted like him, adored him. They were true buddies. The thought that Ryan wouldn’t remember his dad—that he wouldn’t grow up knowing him the way the older boys did—completely gutted me.
When we got to the house, one of my closest friends, Michelle, had been staying with the boys. Ryan had already gone to sleep, but Evan and Logan were still awake, waiting for an update on their dad. We had told Michelle to make sure the TV stayed off—local news stations were already reporting the shooting. We didn’t want them to see something before they heard it from me.
Telling My Children
I pulled into the driveway with a quiet entourage—Maria, my mom, a few others, including the local fire department chaplain. I had been coached on how to talk to the boys—what to say, and what not to say. I needed to be clear and concrete. No metaphors. No “he’s gone to sleep.” Just the truth, spoken gently but plainly.
It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
I told everyone to wait outside. I needed to do this alone.
I walked into the living room, sat on the couch between Evan and Logan, and wrapped my arms around them. I took a deep breath and said:
“When Daddy was at work tonight, he was helping someone—and that person shot him. And Daddy died.”
They stared at me, stunned. Evan didn’t say anything at first. Just sat quietly, trying to process. But Logan… I’ll never forget his reaction.
He cried out, “Oh no!”—and then started sobbing.
After a few moments, through his tears, he took a breath, calmed himself a bit, and said softly:
“Well… at least he’s with Jesus now.”
I pulled him close and held him tight.
“Of course he is,” I whispered.
Evan looked up at me and asked, “Can we sleep in your bed tonight?”
I said, “Of course. You can sleep with me every night.”
(And yes, I would later regret saying that… but in that moment, nothing else mattered except making them feel safe. And honestly, taking care of the boys—being their mom—was the only thing that gave me any sense of comfort in those first hours.)