Fatal Car Accident: A Family Shattered
April 16, 2019, is a date that changed our lives forever. Around 10:30–11 p.m., my husband, Ronnie, started experiencing intense anxiety—something completely unusual for him. He kept asking if what he was feeling was normal, and I reassured him over and over, trying to calm the unease creeping over him.
By midnight, we were all asleep, when a family friend called. I ignored it and went back to sleep. Minutes later, my mother-in-law called, crying. Her words cut through me like a knife: “Aaron got into an accident. He is dead.”
I hung up immediately, unable to speak, unable to process it. Fear gripped me—how could I tell my husband that his brother had been taken from us so suddenly? I stared at him, my heart breaking, and whispered, “It’s Aaron.” The look on his face—the raw, unimaginable pain—will forever haunt me. In that moment, we were both in shock and denial.
I called his mom back, apologizing for hanging up, and she explained what had happened: Aaron had been heading home, lost control, hit a tree, and the car caught fire. He had died instantly at the scene.
We rushed to my husband’s grandparents’ house, leaving our kids with my grandma. The entire family was paralyzed with grief. No one knew what to do or how to act. It didn’t feel real. Our hearts shattered into pieces that night.
Ronnie spent hours lying in the yard, crying. Eight years ago, he had introduced me to Aaron, and we quickly became close friends. Over time, Aaron became one of my best friends. He had this way of saying, “Issokay,” in his gentle country accent, calming everyone around him. That boy loved to dance—any song, any time, he would 2-step and pull you in, whether you wanted to or not.
Ronnie and Aaron shared an unbreakable bond. They were outdoorsmen at heart, always on the water or camping, inseparable since birth. If there is such a thing as a soul connection between brothers, they were it. Losing Aaron was a pain I can only compare to a mother losing her child. No one should endure that.
The next day, Aaron’s baby girl, Kaci, arrived at our grandparents’ house, along with our children. My husband took each child aside and spoke gently, sharing only what was necessary. When it was Kaci’s turn—only four years old—he knelt down and said softly, “You know I love you so much, right? Your daddy loves you, too. Sometimes accidents happen, and people go to Heaven. Your daddy was in an accident, and he’s watching over you now.”
Her little face crumpled, tears streaming. We told her she could still talk to him, that he could see her and watch over her. At four, it’s hard to understand loss, and yet she already knew her world had been changed forever.
We stayed at the grandparents’ house for over a week. Going home felt impossible. Nothing felt normal anymore; all we wanted was to be surrounded by family. A few days later, we held a celebration of life for Aaron. Friends and family shared stories and memories, laughing and crying together. Kaci released a balloon into the sky for her daddy—a tiny, fragile gesture of love and remembrance.
Aaron had a wide circle of people who adored him, but those closest—his baby girl, his brother Ronnie, his sister, and his mother—suffered the deepest loss. Each day without him only makes the ache more pronounced. I pray every day that they find some peace and that their hearts slowly begin to heal.
Kaci’s world revolved around her dad. Every time he picked her up after work, her face lit up like the sun. Aaron raised her as a single father, supported by his family, and she thrived under his love. Now, we keep him alive in her life. I made Kaci a photo album filled with memories of her dad and gave her a necklace containing a part of his ashes, with the words: “I’ll keep a part of you with me.”
She now lives with us, a piece of Aaron in our home. Being with her helps us navigate the pain—we were so intertwined with Aaron. He was Ronnie’s fishing buddy, dinner guest, drinkin’ buddy, best friend—literally the other half of him. The loss is still raw, even five months later. Some days it feels like yesterday, some days like a lifetime ago.
I’m a photographer, so naturally I wanted to capture Kaci honoring her dad. She dressed for him, wore his cowboy hat, held his picture tightly, and whispered, “I love you, daddy,” over and over. The heartbreak on her face was mirrored by a quiet peace, as if she could feel his presence.
Aaron’s smile could light up a room, his positivity was contagious. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned from him, it’s to embrace life with joy, even amid grief. Since the accident, cardinals have appeared at our home—signs, we believe, that our loved one is near. A small miracle of nature, reminding us Aaron is watching over us.
The autopsy and toxicology reports later confirmed what we feared: Aaron suffered severe thermal injuries and injuries from the crash. He had been drinking. Please, I beg you—never drink and drive. Call a friend, a family member, an Uber. Don’t risk your life—or the lives of those around you. Look at Kaci’s face. That could be your child. It’s not worth it.
Aaron’s memory lives in every laugh, every tear, every dance step, and in the heart of his little girl. And we will never stop keeping him alive in ours.
