February 10, 2026 started as a typical winter morning in the small, remote town of Tumbler Ridge, British Columbia. Parents kissed their children goodbye, school buses rumbled along snowy roads, and the community carried on with its quiet rhythm. By early afternoon that day had become one of the darkest in modern Canadian history. A former student walked into Tumbler Ridge Secondary School armed with two firearms and opened fire, killing six children and two adults before taking his own life. Among the young victims was 12-year-old Kylie Smith, a creative, joyful girl whose laughter once filled every corner of her home.

Her father, Lance Younge, broke his silence in an emotional interview conducted on March 2, 2026. Sitting in a quiet room far from the town that now feels haunted, Lance spoke about the moment his world collapsed. “The phone rang around 3:15 p.m.,” he recalled, staring at his hands. “I saw it was an unknown number with a 250 area code—local. I answered thinking maybe Kylie forgot something at school or needed a ride. Instead, a very calm RCMP officer asked if I was Kylie Smith’s father. When I said yes, there was this tiny pause. Then he said the words no parent should ever hear: ‘Sir, I’m very sorry to inform you that your daughter has been shot. She did not survive.’”

Lance remembers the phone slipping from his fingers, the room spinning, his knees hitting the kitchen floor. “Everything after that is fragments—screaming, Jenny running in, someone picking up the phone. I just kept saying ‘No, no, that can’t be right.’ But it was right. My little girl was gone.”

Kylie Smith was born on May 7, 2013. From the moment she could grasp a crayon she drew—endlessly, passionately. She filled sketchbooks with cartoon characters, family portraits, fantastical animals, and bright landscapes inspired by the mountains surrounding Tumbler Ridge. Her mother, Desirae Pisarski, often posted videos of toddler Kylie using both hands to mirror whatever was playing on television, creating symmetrical masterpieces before she could write her name properly.

When she discovered figure skating at age three, a new passion ignited. Kylie glided across the ice with natural grace, performing her first solo routine before most children her age could tie their own skates. She loved the feeling of flying, the sparkle of costumes, the applause after a clean spin. Yet art remained her truest love. “She talked about moving to Toronto one day,” Lance said softly. “She wanted to go to an art school there, study illustration, maybe make children’s books. She had so many plans.”

Kylie lived primarily with Lance and his partner Jenny Geary, along with her younger brother Ethan. The blended family shared a warm, creative home filled with music, drawings taped to every wall, and the constant chatter of children. Kylie was the big sister who helped Ethan with homework, braided his hair when he asked, and defended him fiercely on the playground. She was kind to everyone, quick to share snacks or lend a pencil, the kind of child teachers quietly wished they had in every class.

At 2:20 p.m. on February 10, 18-year-old Jesse Van Rootselaar entered Tumbler Ridge Secondary School. He had already killed his mother, Jennifer Jacobs (39), and his 11-year-old half-brother Emmett Jacobs at their home earlier that day. Inside the school he targeted classrooms and hallways, firing indiscriminately. Six students died: Kylie Smith (12), Ticaria “Tiki” Lampert (12), Zoey Benoit (12), Abel Mwansa (12), Ezekiel Schofield (13), and education assistant Shannda Aviugana-Durand (39), who tried to protect the children. Twenty-seven others were wounded, several fighting for their lives in Vancouver hospitals.

The shooter died by suicide before police could apprehend him. Investigators later confirmed he had a documented history of mental-health contacts with authorities, though no one anticipated violence on this scale.

For Lance, the hours between Kylie leaving for school and the phone call were agonizing. He first heard whispers of an “active shooter” through panicked group chats. He tried calling the school repeatedly—lines busy. He drove toward the building but was stopped by police barricades. “I stood there in the snow, watching parents crying, sirens everywhere, and I kept telling myself she was hiding somewhere safe. Kids are smart—they hide under desks, in closets. She had to be okay.”

Then came the call.

In the days that followed, Lance and Jenny clung to photos and memories. They released a family statement through the RCMP: “Kylie was our beautiful soul, full of love for her family and friends. She dreamed of art school in Toronto. Rest in paradise, sweet girl. Our family will never be the same without you.”

They planned a private funeral, wanting only close family and friends to say goodbye. Days before the service, credible death threats began circulating online—targeting multiple grieving families. The threats were serious enough that police advised cancellation. Lance and Jenny were moved to a secure location while the RCMP investigated. In a public Facebook post shared by the Tumbler Ridge Chamber of Commerce, they wrote: “We are so sorry we had to cancel Kylie’s service today. We saw how hard everyone was working on it. From what we are hearing, we are at least the third family of the deceased to be harassed or threatened by people from their past since this awful tragedy took place. We just wanted to say goodbye to our daughter in peace.”

The added cruelty left Lance speechless. “We’re already broken,” he said. “And then strangers online decide to make it worse. I don’t understand how people can do that to parents burying their child.”

Tumbler Ridge—a purpose-built “instant town” from the 1980s coal boom—has been forever altered. Memorials of candles, stuffed animals, flowers, and children’s drawings line the school fence and town square. Hundreds gathered for vigils, singing songs Kylie loved and releasing lanterns into the night sky. Political leaders visited; national news crews arrived; the country mourned.

Kylie’s best friend Ticaria “Tiki” Lampert was killed in the same attack. Photos show the girls hugging, laughing, promising to be “besties forever.” Their families now grieve together, sharing stories that keep both girls alive in memory.

Surviving children carry invisible scars. Some whisper about hiding in supply closets, hearing gunfire, smelling smoke. Therapists, grief counselors, and trauma specialists have descended on the town. The community—already facing economic hardship after mine closures—now faces another long recovery.

Lance wants people to remember Kylie not as a statistic, but as the girl who once turned an ordinary sidewalk into a canvas with sidewalk chalk rainbows, who taught her little brother how to do a two-foot spin on ice, who hugged strangers when they looked sad. “She saw beauty everywhere,” he said. “Even on the hardest days, she found something to smile about.”

He paused, wiping his eyes. “If there’s one thing I want people to take from this, it’s to hold your kids. Tell them you love them—every single day. Because one phone call can change everything forever.”

Plans are underway for an art scholarship in Kylie’s name, funded by community donations and proceeds from local fundraisers. Her drawings—bright, whimsical, full of life—will be exhibited to raise money for mental-health programs in northern British Columbia. It’s a small light in overwhelming darkness, but it’s the kind of light Kylie would have loved.

Across Canada, parents hug their children a little tighter tonight. Schools review safety protocols. Conversations about gun access, mental-health support, and school security grow louder. For Lance Younge, those discussions feel distant. Right now he focuses on breathing, on supporting Ethan, on keeping Kylie’s artwork visible so her spirit stays close.

Kylie Smith’s life was short, but it was vivid, colorful, and deeply loved. Her father’s voice, raw with grief yet steady with determination, carries her memory forward. In a town scarred by violence, in a nation shaken to its core, one girl’s smile refuses to fade.

Rest in peace, Kylie. Your colors will shine forever.