“If I Can’t Have Them, Neither Can You” — A Mother’s Unimaginable Loss
It was supposed to be an ordinary Monday.
A day like any other — full of small routines, little plans, and a mother’s excitement to see her children again after a weekend apart.
But when Debbie Karels opened the door to her estranged husband’s home, the world she knew ended in a single breath.
Inside that quiet suburban house, silence hung heavy.
There were no toys scattered on the floor, no laughter, no footsteps running to greet her.
Just stillness.
And the sight that no mother should ever have to see.
On the bed lay Bryant, Cassidy, and Gideon — ages five, three, and two.
Three small bodies, side by side.
Peaceful, almost as if asleep.
But their lips were pale, their skin cold.
And Debbie’s scream pierced through the walls, echoing down the street, breaking a silence that would never heal.
When police arrived, they found the unimaginable truth.
The children had been drowned — one by one — in the bathtub.
Their father, Jason Karels, had left the house and disappeared.
On a nearby table, officers found a handwritten note.
It read:
“If I can’t have them, neither can you.”
Authorities launched a manhunt that lasted hours.
Helicopters circled overhead, patrol cars filled the highways.
By late afternoon, Jason’s car was spotted speeding down the interstate.
He led police on a high-speed chase that ended when he crashed into a wooded area.
When officers pulled him from the wreckage, bleeding but alive, he confessed everything.
“I killed my kids,” he told them.
“I tried to kill myself too.”
The officers who heard those words later said they would never forget them.
Some broke down in tears after the arrest.
Autopsies confirmed what everyone feared.
The three children had drowned.
No other injuries were found.
There was no struggle — no bruises, no broken bones.
Which meant they had likely been drugged, or too small to understand what was happening.
Authorities are still waiting for toxicology reports to know for sure.
But the truth was already unbearable.
Debbie had shared custody with her estranged husband.
He was supposed to have the children for the weekend.
She was scheduled to pick them up for a doctor’s appointment that morning.
Instead, she walked into a nightmare.
Neighbors said they had seen the children playing in the backyard just days before — chasing each other, laughing, wearing bright clothes that matched their joy.
Nothing seemed unusual.
No one had heard shouting or crying.
The Karels family kept to themselves, quiet and private.
No one could have imagined the darkness hiding behind those walls.
That evening, candles flickered outside the house.
People left teddy bears, flowers, and handwritten notes.
One read, “Fly high, little angels. You deserved a world full of love.”
Another neighbor, Mary Santana, stood quietly holding her daughter’s hand.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she whispered,
“It’s so unfair.
I can’t imagine that mother’s pain.”
Inside a nearby church, a vigil was held.
Three small photos stood side by side — Bryant’s playful grin, Cassidy’s big brown eyes, and Gideon’s chubby cheeks that still looked baby-soft.
Debbie sat in the front pew, her hands shaking as she held three small teddy bears pressed against her chest.
She couldn’t speak.
She didn’t need to.
Her silence said more than words ever could.
Bryant, the oldest, loved dinosaurs and wanted to be an astronaut.
He was five — curious, brave, and protective of his little siblings.
He was the one who always made sure Cassidy’s shoes were tied, who held Gideon’s hand when crossing the street.
Cassidy, three, loved to dance.
Her favorite color was pink, and she would spin in circles until she fell laughing.
She wanted to be a “ballerina doctor,” she once told her mom — because she wanted to help people, but still wear sparkly shoes.
Gideon, the baby of the family, was only two.
He followed his brother and sister everywhere, copying every word they said.
He loved to snuggle, to giggle when his mother kissed his nose.
He never got to learn his letters or say “I love you” clearly — but he didn’t have to.
His mother already knew.
At the press conference, the police chief could barely hold his voice steady.
“I cannot fathom the pain this family is going through right now,” he said.
“We are all deeply affected.”
He paused, then added quietly,
“Some things stay with you forever.
This will stay with us forever.”
When Jason was taken to the hospital after his crash, he showed no remorse.
He told police he had made “several suicide attempts” and wanted to die with his children.
But instead, he lived — and now sits behind bars on a $10 million bond, charged with three counts of first-degree murder.
No one can explain what drove him to do it.
There were no prior reports of abuse, no documented mental illness, no history of violence.
Just a man who let rage consume him — and destroyed everything in its path.
Debbie now lives in the quiet aftermath — the kind of silence that doesn’t fade.
She visits their graves almost every day.
Sometimes she brings balloons, sometimes drawings the children made in preschool.
She talks to them softly, telling them about the sunrise, about the flowers blooming near their headstones.
She says she still feels them in the wind.
That when she closes her eyes, she can almost hear their laughter again.
“They were my whole world,” she said in an interview later.
“Now I just try to breathe.”
The pain of losing one child is unimaginable.
Losing three — all at once, all in this way — is something words can’t touch.
And yet, Debbie continues to live, to speak, to fight — so that no one else will ever have to face the horror she did.
She has turned her grief into a mission — advocating for stronger child protection laws and awareness around family violence.
Through every tear, she honors Bryant, Cassidy, and Gideon — her angels who never had a chance to grow up.
The town still remembers them.
Every year, on the week of their passing, people gather in the park with candles and bubbles.
They write the children’s names on lanterns and watch them float into the night sky.
The wind carries the softest whispers — “We love you. We remember you.”