For weeks after the unthinkable happened, Spencer Tepe’s sister chose silence. She watched the news cycles spin, saw the headlines come and go, and protected her young niece and nephew from the glare of cameras while the family tried to breathe through the pain. But on a quiet January afternoon in 2026, she decided the world needed to know who her brother and sister-in-law really were—not as victims in a crime story, but as two people whose love still radiates through the daughter they left behind.

In an exclusive sit-down interview with a local Columbus outlet, the sister—speaking publicly for the first time since the December 30, 2025 murders—looked straight into the lens and said words that have since been shared, quoted, and cried over by strangers across the country:

“They were stolen from us. But their love was never stolen. It’s still right here—walking around on little legs, humming Spencer’s songs, wearing Monique’s cardigan when she’s scared. Every time that four-year-old girl laughs, helps her baby brother, or whispers ‘be kind and be brave,’ they’re still speaking. They’re still loving. They’re still winning.”

The raw honesty of the moment disarmed viewers. There were no prepared statements, no anger directed at the accused (Michael David McKee, Monique’s ex-husband, charged with aggravated murder), no calls for justice in that particular interview. Instead, she chose to talk only about light—about the way Spencer used to make silly faces in the dental chair to calm anxious kids, about Monique turning rainy days into indoor campouts, about how the couple would dance in the kitchen while dinner cooked just because they could.

She described her niece’s new habits in heartbreaking detail: the way the girl still sets two extra places at the table “for when Mommy and Daddy come home from work,” the way she carefully brushes her teeth for exactly two minutes because “Daddy said that’s how long it takes to make them sparkly,” the way she hugs her one-year-old brother the exact way Spencer used to hug her—arms tight, chin resting on the top of his head. “She’s parenting him already,” the sister said, voice cracking. “She’s four years old and she’s already carrying them both inside her.”

The family has leaned into those behaviors rather than correct them. Grief counselors working with the children have encouraged keeping routines and memories alive however the little girl needs to express them. Every evening the household lights a candle and shares one happy memory. They play Spencer’s favorite jazz playlist softly during dinner. They read Monique’s handwritten bedtime stories—her handwriting still visible on the pages she decorated with tiny stars and hearts. They let the four-year-old sleep in her mother’s cardigan when nightmares come. These are not denial; they are preservation.

The community response has been overwhelming in scope and tenderness. The GoFundMe created in the days after the tragedy has now surpassed $1.1 million, with funds earmarked for long-term therapy, college savings, a trust, and day-to-day support. Neighbors still bring meals, teachers still add new drawings to the preschool “memory corner,” complete strangers continue sending cards and stuffed animals addressed simply to “the Tepe kids.” One envelope contained a handwritten note from an eight-year-old boy: “I lost my dad when I was little. It still hurts but I talk to him every night. Tell your niece to talk to her mommy and daddy too. They can hear her.”

The sister’s interview has been viewed more than 12 million times online. Comments sections overflow with people sharing their own stories of early loss, childhood grief, and the strange comfort that comes from realizing pain is universal. Many have called it “the most beautiful, devastating thing” they’ve seen in years. One viral reply read: “She didn’t talk about the monster who did this. She talked about love that outlived him. That’s power.”

For the family, the coming months will be long and uneven. The children will grow up with stories instead of parents, with photographs instead of hugs, with echoes instead of voices. But they will also grow up surrounded by people determined to keep those voices alive—through bedtime routines, holiday traditions, silly faces in mirrors, and the simple daily act of choosing kindness because Mommy and Daddy would have wanted it.

Spencer Tepe was the dentist who made scared kids feel safe. Monique Tepe was the mother who made ordinary days feel magical. Together they built a legacy that fits inside a four-year-old’s small hands and a one-year-old’s sleepy smile. Their sister’s words remind us that murder can take bodies, but it cannot take love when that love was real.

So when that little girl sets an extra place at the table tonight, when she hums her father’s tune or wraps herself in her mother’s cardigan, know this: Spencer and Monique are not gone. They’re right there. Still dancing in the kitchen. Still singing lullabies. Still loving—through the only place strong enough to carry them forward.

Their daughter.