The night of December 7, 2018, began quietly, the way rural nights often do when the world seems to hold its breath.
Country roads in Taylors were dark and empty, lit only by the occasional porch light and the cold shine of the moon.

It was just before 12:30 a.m. when everything that mattered to one family slipped irreversibly into tragedy.

Five people were traveling in a van that night.
Four of them were children, small bodies curled into seats that should have carried them safely home.

The fifth was an adult, driving them through the quiet back roads, unaware—or unwilling to acknowledge—how fragile the moment truly was.

The van drifted off the right side of the road.

There was no dramatic warning, no second chance, only the sudden violence of metal meeting trees.
Several trees stood in the vehicle’s path, and the impact tore the night open.

When the sound finally faded, three young lives were already gone.
Four-year-old Arnez Yaron Jamison Jr., six-year-old Robbiana Evans, and eight-year-old Jamire Halley died at the scene.
Their lives ended before help could arrive, before dawn had a chance to soften the darkness.

The fourth child, two-year-old Ar’mani Jamison, was still breathing when responders reached the wreckage.
She was rushed to the hospital, where doctors fought for her through the long hours that followed.

But on Sunday afternoon, around 5:20 p.m., her small body could no longer hold on.

Four children.
Four futures erased in the span of a single crash.
Four names that would soon be spoken together, always, because they left the world together.

Investigators would later say it is believed the children were not wearing seatbelts.
That detail alone is enough to make the heart ache, because it speaks of how preventable the loss might have been.

Tiny adjustments, small precautions, moments of responsibility that could have changed everything.

The driver of the van was twenty-seven-year-old Arnez Yaron Jamison Sr.
He was the father of the two youngest children and a familiar 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 court documents and charges, there was a mother waiting at home.

She had been cleaning on Thursday evening, moving through ordinary tasks, trusting that her children would return soon.
Jamison Sr. had taken the kids to visit another one of his children in town, something that did not raise alarm at first.

Time passed, and the house stayed quiet.
It was late, edging into early Friday morning, when worry began to creep in.
The roads were dark, the hour wrong, and the absence too loud to ignore.

She tried calling.
Again and again, she reached for her phone, hoping for an answer, hoping for reassurance.
But the calls went unanswered, and fear settled in her chest like a weight.

Then the phone rang.
It wasn’t the voice she had been hoping to hear, but a call from the hospital.
In a single moment, her life split into before and after.

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

Jamire Halley was eight years old, an age where independence begins to bloom.
He loved sports and carried himself like a protector, watching over his younger siblings with quiet seriousness.

In the family, he was already learning what it meant to be strong for others.

Robbiana Evans was six, bright and full of energy.
She loved the color pink and took pride in being her mother’s helper, eager to feel useful and grown.

Her laughter filled rooms, and her absence would leave them painfully still.

Arnez Yaron Jamison Jr. was four, a child who had already known more hardship than many adults.
As a baby, he had a cancerous lymph node removed and later battled sickle cell disease.

Despite it all, he kept going, small and resilient, unaware of how brave he truly was.

Ar’mani Jamison was the youngest, just two years old.
She adored her older siblings, following them with wide eyes and unquestioning trust.

Her world was built on their presence, and she never had to learn what life was like without them—until it was over.

To imagine losing one child is unbearable.
To lose four at once is something the mind cannot fully grasp.

It is grief multiplied, layered, crashing in waves that never seem to end.

In the days that followed, the community struggled to find words.
People spoke in whispers, shook their heads, hugged their own children a little tighter.

There are losses that ripple outward, touching even those who never knew the victims personally.

Court proceedings would follow, slow and methodical.
Charges would be read, evidence reviewed, responsibility argued.

But no legal process could return what had been taken from that family.

For the mother, grief would not arrive in a straight line.
It would come in moments—seeing four empty spaces where children once slept, hearing silence where there should have been noise.
It would come in memories triggered by toys, colors, and songs.

People would tell her to be strong.
They always do, even when strength feels impossible.
What they really mean is that they don’t know how to sit with that much pain.

The names of the children would be spoken at memorials.
Candles would be lit, balloons released, prayers whispered into cold air.

Each ritual an attempt to honor lives that ended far too soon.

Jamire, Robbiana, Arnez Jr., and Ar’mani.
Four angels, people would say, because calling them angels feels kinder than accepting how they died.
It is a way of lifting them out of the violence of the world and placing them somewhere safe.

But even angels are missed.
Even angels leave behind empty rooms and shattered hearts.

Even angels do not ease the ache of a mother who wakes each day to a house that will never be the same.

This tragedy is a reminder written in blood and silence.
It speaks of responsibility, of choices, of the fragile line between ordinary life and irreversible loss.
It demands that we pay attention, because children depend on adults to keep them alive.

There are no perfect endings to stories like this.
Only remembrance, accountability, and the hope that lessons learned come before the next siren.
Only the quiet promise to say their names, so they are never reduced to a statistic.

Rest peacefully, Jamire Halley.
Rest peacefully, Robbiana Evans, Arnez Yaron Jamison Jr., and Ar’mani Jamison.
May you be held together somewhere beyond pain, four angels forever bound by love and memory. ✨