In the heart of Columbus’s Weinland Park neighborhood, where restored homes symbolize renewal and community spirit, one house on North Fourth Street now stands as a monument to unimaginable loss. Spencer Tepe, a 37-year-old dentist whose smile put patients at ease, and his 39-year-old wife Monique, a warm soul with a background in childhood education, built their life there. They exchanged vows in that very home in 2021, surrounded by laughter and promises of forever. Just weeks shy of their fifth anniversary, that forever ended abruptly in the early hours of December 30, 2025. Gunshots rang out upstairs while their two young children—a 4-year-old girl and a 1-year-old boy—slept downstairs, unharmed but suddenly orphaned.

Over a week later, as January’s chill deepens and the investigation stretches on without arrests, the family’s deepest heartache isn’t just the mystery of who pulled the trigger. It’s the agonizing question no parent ever wants to face: How do you tell a 4-year-old that Mommy and Daddy will never come home again? And for the baby boy, barely toddling, how do you preserve memories of parents he’ll never truly know? “We’ve all been grappling with how to tell a 4-year-old that they’re never gonna see their parents again,” Rob Misleh, Spencer’s brother-in-law, shared in a raw moment of vulnerability. The words hang heavy, a parent’s nightmare made real.

The children, now sheltered by immediate relatives, remain as shielded from the truth as possible. The little girl, curious and full of questions at her age, is kept occupied with play and routine. The boy, too young to comprehend, babbles on innocently. Family members believe the kids slept through the horror—tucked in their own room while the violence unfolded between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. No signs they witnessed the shots that claimed Spencer (hit multiple times) and Monique (at least once in the chest). Yet the delay in explanation can’t last forever. Experts in child grief warn that honesty, delivered gently and age-appropriately, is crucial—but timing it right, amid funerals and media glare, feels impossible.

Spencer and Monique’s world revolved around those children. Spencer, a proud Ohio State graduate fluent in Spanish, commuted to his practice in Athens, treating underserved patients with compassion. Colleagues recall him as reliable, energetic—a Bengals and Buckeyes superfan who volunteered with Big Brothers Big Sisters. Monique brought intention to everything: baking delights, fostering connections, creating a home where friends gathered effortlessly. “You never saw them without a smile,” one relative said. Their Goldendoodle completed the picture of domestic bliss. Travel, laughter, simple joys—they were building a legacy rooted in love.

That legacy shattered when Spencer missed work—an uncharacteristic absence that triggered welfare checks. Coworkers called repeatedly; friends rushed over. One peered through a window, spotting horror: Spencer’s body in blood beside the bed. Frantic 911 calls captured the panic—”There’s a body… he’s laying in his own blood”—followed by the heart-wrenching sound of children crying inside. Police arrived to confirm the worst: double homicide, no forced entry, no weapon found, three 9mm casings scattered like grim confetti.

The absence of stranger DNA in the blood—all belonging to the victims—only heightens the puzzle. A meticulous killer? Someone known and trusted? Grainy surveillance shows a hooded figure in light pants strolling an alley near the home during the fatal window—head down, purposeful. Tips pour in, but no suspect named, no motive revealed. Was it targeted? Random? A hidden grudge? Earlier whispers of Spencer confiding a recent argument with an unnamed man add intrigue—why withhold the identity?

In Weinland Park, fear lingers. Neighbors, once comforted by the area’s revival, now bolt doors earlier. No gunshots heard that night, no screams—just silence broken by discovery. Memorials bloom on the porch: flowers, candles, notes pleading for justice. A GoFundMe swells, ensuring the children’s future. Private vigils offer space to mourn the couple who embodied warmth.

For the family, justice means answers—and safety for the kids. “This person didn’t just take two lives,” Misleh said. “They took a son and daughter, brother and sister, aunt and uncle.” The boy may grow without memories; the girl will carry scars. How to explain evil to innocence? Therapists advise simple truths: “Mommy and Daddy got very hurt and can’t come back, but they loved you so much.” Yet words fail when hearts break.

As detectives sift forensics (autopsies pending weeks) and chase the alley shadow, the community watches. Columbus police urge tips, thanking the flood already received. In a case defying logic—no robbery apparent, children spared—resolution feels urgent. Somewhere, the truth hides: motive, entry, escape without trace.

Spencer and Monique’s story captivates because it mirrors everyday happiness—until it doesn’t. A home of vows turned crime scene. Parents stolen, leaving tiny souls to navigate a world forever altered. The family’s pain peaks in those unspoken words to the children, a conversation delayed but inevitable. When it comes, it will shatter illusions gently built. But love endures—in relatives’ arms, in memories preserved, in a pursuit of justice that might one day bring peace.

For now, two orphans play on, unaware. And a family wrestles with the cruelest lesson: how to say goodbye when forever comes too soon.