In the fog-draped quiet of rural Nova Scotia, where Atlantic winds whisper through pine groves and the ghosts of unresolved tragedies linger, one woman’s voice cuts through the despair like a lighthouse beam. Sandra McKenzie, 68, the grandmother of two missing children from a high-profile 2022 abduction case, broke down in a raw, emotional interview aired on CBC’s The National last week, declaring with trembling resolve: “They think I’ll give up—but I never will.” Her words, delivered amid sobs that echoed a nation’s shared grief, have reignited public outcry over the unresolved disappearance of her grandchildren, 7-year-old Mia Thompson and 5-year-old Ethan Thompson. As the investigation drags into its fourth year, marked by stalled leads and bureaucratic frustrations, Sandra’s unyielding vow serves as both a personal manifesto and a stark indictment of a justice system that has left a family—and a community—in limbo. In a province scarred by child welfare scandals, her fight underscores the raw power of familial love when official channels falter.

The nightmare began on a crisp autumn morning in September 2022, in the small fishing community of Lunenburg, Nova Scotia. Mia and Ethan, bright-eyed siblings with a penchant for beachcombing and backyard forts, were in the custody of their mother, 32-year-old Rebecca Thompson, amid a contentious custody battle with their father, local mechanic David Thompson. Court records paint a volatile picture: Years of domestic disputes, substance abuse allegations against Rebecca, and repeated interventions by Child and Family Services (CFS). On September 15, 2022, Rebecca was granted supervised visitation after a judge cited “insufficient evidence” of immediate risk. But that afternoon, during an unsupervised handoff at a Tim Hortons parking lot, the exchange went awry. David arrived to collect the children; Rebecca pulled up late, the kids buckled in the back seat. Witnesses later described a heated exchange—shouting over missed payments and visitation rights—before Rebecca sped off, tires screeching, with Mia and Ethan in tow. David’s frantic 911 call at 3:47 p.m. marked the last confirmed sighting.

By nightfall, Rebecca’s weathered Ford Escape was found abandoned on a gravel road near the LaHave River, keys in the ignition, doors unlocked, and the children’s car seats empty but intact. No signs of struggle: A half-eaten granola bar on the dash, Ethan’s stuffed whale toy clutched in the front seat, Mia’s sparkly backpack unzipped on the floor. RCMP launched an immediate Amber Alert, mobilizing drones, K-9 units, and volunteer searchers along the riverbanks and dense Acadian forests. Divers combed the murky waters for days; helicopters buzzed overhead, their spotlights carving through the mist. Tips poured in—sightings from Halifax to Yarmouth—but all led to dead ends. Rebecca’s phone went dark after 4:12 p.m., pinging last off a tower near Bridgewater. No ransom demands, no bodies, no trace. The children, presumed abducted by their mother in a desperate flight, vanished into the ether.

For Sandra McKenzie, a retired schoolteacher and pillar of Lunenburg’s tight-knit community, the loss carved a chasm. Living just blocks from Rebecca’s rental, she had been the children’s steadfast anchor—baking oatmeal cookies on weekends, reading bedtime stories laced with Nova Scotia folklore. “They were my sun and moon,” she told CBC, her voice cracking as she clutched a faded photo of the trio at Peggy’s Cove, waves crashing behind their gap-toothed grins. The interview, filmed in her modest living room adorned with the kids’ crayon drawings, captured Sandra’s unraveling: Tears streaming as she recounted the custody hearing where she begged the judge for intervention, only to be dismissed as “overly emotional.” “I knew something was wrong—Rebecca’s eyes were hollow, like she’d already said goodbye,” Sandra recalled. When the Amber Alert blared on her radio, she raced to the scene, sifting through debris with bare hands until dawn. Now, three years on, her home stands as a shrine: Mia’s ballet slippers on the mantel, Ethan’s toy trucks lined like sentinels.

The RCMP’s probe has drawn sharp criticism. Initially treating it as a parental abduction, investigators pursued Rebecca’s network—friends in Quebec, a rumored boyfriend in Maine—but leads fizzled. A 2023 tip about a woman matching her description at a New Brunswick truck stop yielded nothing but frustration. Forensic sweeps of the vehicle turned up scant clues: A single hair on the headrest (not a match), faint fingerprints on the door (Rebecca’s own), and GPS data halting abruptly at the river. No vehicle tracks into the water suggested flight on foot—or aid from an unseen accomplice. By mid-2024, the case cooled, reassigned to the cold-case unit amid budget cuts. Sandra and David, estranged but allied in grief, filed complaints with the Civilian Review and Complaints Commission, alleging “inadequate resources” and “dismissal of family intel.” A scathing 2025 auditor’s report echoed their cries: Nova Scotia’s child protection system, overwhelmed by 2,500 annual cases, prioritizes removals over preventives, leaving families like the Thompsons in peril.

Sandra’s interview, timed with the report’s release, wasn’t mere catharsis—it was a calculated clarion call. Flanked by advocate groups like Missing Children Society of Canada, she detailed overlooked leads: Rebecca’s encrypted texts to an unknown contact, a sighting near the Cabot Trail dismissed as “unverifiable,” and whispers of underground networks aiding fleeing parents. “They think time will bury this, that a grandmother’s tears mean surrender,” she said, fists clenched. “But I never will. Not until I hold them again—or bury them proper.” The segment, viewed by 1.2 million, sparked a torrent: #JusticeForMiaAndEthan trended on X, petitions for a provincial task force garnered 50,000 signatures, and tips surged 300% to the RCMP tipline (1-800-222-TIPS). Celebrities like Shania Twain, a Nova Scotia native, amplified it on Instagram, while local fundraisers swelled support for private investigators.

Yet hope flickers amid shadows. Experts weigh theories: Rebecca, spiraling from postpartum echoes and financial ruin, staged a new life abroad, children in tow. Or tragedy struck—drowning in the LaHave’s treacherous currents, bodies claimed by tides. Foul play looms larger: Ties to organized evasion rings, or a custody rival’s hand. DNA from the car seats, retested in 2024 via advanced genealogy, matched no new profiles. Sandra clings to the improbable: “They’re out there, waiting for Grandma’s voice to find them.” David, hollow-eyed in a parallel interview with CTV, echoed her: “We’ve lost years, but not the fight.”

This saga mirrors Nova Scotia’s underbelly of unresolved pains—the 2013 serial killings in Upper Big Tracadie, the Mary Ellen King cold case—where rural isolation breeds investigative voids. Child abductions here number 40 annually, per Statistics Canada, with 20% parental. Sandra’s stand humanizes the stats, her vow a bulwark against apathy. As winter looms, with its gales howling off the Atlantic, she plans a pilgrimage: Retracing the river with cadaver dogs, funded by GoFundMe. “Love doesn’t fade with the leaves,” she told reporters post-interview, eyes steel despite the salt tracks.

In Lunenburg’s harbor, where schooners bob like forgotten dreams, Sandra McKenzie embodies endurance. Her words—”I never will”—aren’t just defiance; they’re a promise etched in a grandmother’s unbreakable heart. For Mia and Ethan, wherever the winds have carried them, that voice endures, a beacon in the fog. Justice may crawl, but in Nova Scotia’s resilient soul, it never truly stops.