The night of December 7, 2018, began quietly, the way rural nights often do when the world seems to hold its breath.

In Taylors, the roads were dark and mostly empty, stretching through fields and trees under a cold, watchful moon. Porch lights glowed faintly in the distance. It was the kind of night when nothing feels urgent, when families assume everyone will make it home safely because that is how most nights end.

Just before 12:30 a.m., that quiet was shattered.

A van carrying five people moved along those back roads. Inside were four children—small bodies trusting the seats beneath them to carry them safely home. The fifth person was an adult behind the wheel, someone they knew, someone responsible for their lives.

Then the van drifted off the right side of the road.

There was no dramatic warning, no long skid, no second chance. Metal struck trees with sudden, violent force, the sound ripping through the stillness of the night. When everything stopped moving, the silence that followed was heavier than before.

By the time first responders reached the wreckage, three children were already gone.

Four-year-old Arnez Yaron Jamison Jr.
Six-year-old Robbiana Evans
Eight-year-old Jamire Halley

Their lives ended there, in the darkness, before dawn had a chance to arrive.

The fourth child, two-year-old Ar’mani Jamison, was still alive when help came. She was pulled from the wreckage and rushed to the hospital, where doctors worked through the night and into the next day, fighting for a life barely begun.

For hours, hope clung to the possibility that at least one child might survive.

But on Sunday afternoon, around 5:20 p.m., Ar’mani’s small body could no longer hold on.

Four children.
Four futures erased in a single crash.
Four names forever spoken together.

Investigators later said it is believed the children were not wearing seatbelts. That detail alone carries unbearable weight. It turns grief into something sharper, more haunting—because it suggests how preventable the loss might have been. A click. A pause. A moment of responsibility that could have changed everything.

The driver of the van was 27-year-old Arnez Yaron Jamison Sr., the father of the two youngest children and a trusted presence in the others’ lives. After the crash, he was charged with four counts of felony DUI resulting in death, along with driving under suspension, child endangerment, and other violations.

But before charges and courtrooms, there was a mother waiting at home.

Earlier that evening, she had been cleaning, moving through ordinary tasks, believing her children would soon return. Jamison Sr. had taken them to visit another one of his children in town—something that didn’t initially raise alarm.

As the hours passed, the house remained quiet.

Too quiet.

The clock crept closer to midnight. The roads were dark. The silence grew louder. Worry settled into her chest like a heavy stone.

She tried calling.

Again and again, she reached for her phone, hoping to hear a familiar voice, hoping to be told they were just running late. But no one answered. Each unanswered call deepened the fear.

Then the phone rang.

It wasn’t the call she was waiting for. It was the hospital.

In that moment, her life split into two parts: everything before, and everything after.

No parent is prepared for that call. No words can soften what it means to be told your children have been hurt—or worse. For this mother, the loss was not one child, not two, but four.

Jamire Halley, eight years old, was already stepping into a role as protector. He loved sports and carried himself with a quiet seriousness, watching over younger siblings as if it were his natural duty.

Robbiana Evans, six, was bright and full of life. She loved the color pink and took pride in helping her mother, eager to feel grown and useful. Her laughter once filled rooms that would soon feel painfully empty.

Arnez Yaron Jamison Jr., just four, had already fought battles many never face. As a baby, he had a cancerous lymph node removed and later lived with sickle cell disease. Despite it all, he kept going—small, resilient, unaware of how brave he truly was.

Ar’mani Jamison, two years old, adored her older siblings. She followed them everywhere, her world built on their presence and protection. She never had to learn what life was like without them—because she never lived long enough to.

To lose one child is unimaginable. To lose four at once is a kind of grief the mind struggles to comprehend. It is loss multiplied, layered, crashing in waves that never fully recede.

In the days that followed, the community struggled to find words. Parents hugged their children tighter. Neighbors spoke in hushed voices. Candlelight vigils flickered in the cold, each flame a fragile attempt to honor lives that ended too soon.

Court proceedings would come later—slow, procedural, heavy with legal language. Charges would be read. Evidence reviewed. Responsibility debated.

But no courtroom could return what had been taken.

For the mother, grief did not arrive all at once. It came in moments—four empty beds, four missing voices, four spaces at the table that would never be filled again. It came when toys were found, when favorite colors appeared in stores, when songs played that once made her children dance.

People told her to be strong.

They always do, even when strength feels impossible. What they often mean is that they don’t know how to sit with pain this deep.

Memorials were held. Names were spoken. Candles lit. Balloons released into the sky, as if lifting them might ease the weight left behind.

Jamire.
Robbiana.
Arnez Jr.
Ar’mani.

Four names. Four stories. Four children who should still be here.

People called them angels, because that feels kinder than accepting the violence of their loss. It places them somewhere safe, somewhere untouched by sirens and shattered glass.

But even angels are missed.

Even angels leave behind silence that echoes through a house.

Even angels cannot ease the ache of a mother who wakes each day to a world that will never be the same.

This tragedy is a reminder written in grief and silence. It speaks of responsibility. Of choices. Of how fragile the line is between an ordinary night and irreversible loss.

It asks us to pay attention, because children depend entirely on adults to protect them.

There are no perfect endings to stories like this. Only remembrance. Accountability. And the hope that lessons are learned before the next quiet night is broken by sirens.

So we say their names.

So they are never reduced to statistics.

Rest peacefully, Jamire Halley.
Rest peacefully, Robbiana Evans.
Rest peacefully, Arnez Yaron Jamison Jr.
Rest peacefully, Ar’mani Jamison.

Four little lives. One tragic night.
Forever remembered.