Transcript
Commercial Narrator (0:00)
This is the story of the 1.
Ashley (0:02)
As a custodial supervisor at a high school, he knows that during cold and.
Commercial Narrator (0:06)
Flu season, germs spread fast.
Ashley (0:08)
It's why he partners with Grainger to stay fully stocked on the products and supplies he needs, from tissues to disinfectants to floor scrubbers, all so that he can help students, staff and teachers stay healthy and focused. Call 1-800-GRAINGER Click grainger.com or just stop by Ranger for the ones who get it done.
Ricky (0:30)
This is the story of the 1.
Ashley (0:32)
As head of maintenance at a concert.
Ricky (0:34)
Hall, he knows the show must always go on.
Commercial Narrator (0:36)
That's why he works behind the scenes, ensuring every light is working, the H.
Ricky (0:41)
Vac is humming, and his facility shines.
Commercial Narrator (0:44)
With Grainger's supplies and solutions for every challenge he faces.
Ricky (0:48)
Plus 24. 7 customer support, his venue never misses a beat. Call quickgranger.com or just stop by Granger.
Ashley (0:56)
For the ones who get it done. Before we get started, we want to pause and give an important note that this episode is as heavy as the title suggests. We'll be discussing Filicide, the heartbreaking loss of children whose lives should never have been cut short, as well as mentions of suicide. These are difficult but necessary conversations, and with them comes the push for awareness and change. Please know that listener discretion is strongly advised. I'm Ashley. And I'm Ricky, and this is Crime salad. So at CrimeCon, Ricky and I had just finished getting ready for the day. We put on our Crime Salad shirts. We got our overpriced coffees prepared to meet hundreds of people, share stories, and invite new listeners to listen to our show. But then something happened that stopped me in my tracks. A woman approached our table holding a flyer, and on it were the faces of children. With her was a wonderful person named Rachel from momcast Productions, who introduced her and gently explained her story. The woman by her side was Hope Houdin. Her two children had been the victims of filicide, the unimaginable act where a parent, or sometimes even a step parent, takes the lives of a child and in this case, their father murdered her two children and then himself. As Hope stood there, I felt it instantly, the weight of her grief. It was deep and raw, the worst pain a mother could ever feel. But right alongside it, I felt something else. Strength. A strength I can only describe as the kind that comes from living through the unimaginable. It resonated off her like a beam of light. Hope was standing in her truth. She got ready on the same day, just like me, wearing A shirt that says Voices of Filicide. Here to tell her children's story, even if it meant reliving her pain of the words over and over again. That's when I knew that this woman has the kind of courage most of us can hardly fathom. I'll admit it. I couldn't hold back my tears. The mother in me just felt her pain. I. I just can't imagine losing my babies to something so horrible and preventable. And before I even thought about it, I asked her if I can give her a hug. And that hug is something I'll never forget. It was as if her grief and strength both poured into me all at once. That moment is what brings us to today's case. From the instant I met Hope, I knew that one day we would cover her story because it deserves to be told. For her, for her children, and for many others who may be living with the same fight. And today, we're doing just that. Hope Whodin has turned her pain into purpose, demanding change in the face of a system that failed her and so many children like hers. This is Hope Houdin's story. On a quiet Monday morning in Surprise, Arizona, a mother's worst fears began to take shape. Just days earlier, Hope had handed her two children over to their father, Brock Mater, for visitation, a court ordered exchange that, no matter how routine it had become, never stopped feeling heavy. Every goodbye hug carried this quiet ache, an anxiety tug of reluctance a mother might feel when the instinct to protect wants to pull them away in the other direction. But that Monday, the fragile sense of what was ordered to be normal shattered. A call came from her children's school. Both of them had been marked absent. No excuse, no explanation. In that moment, the rhythm of her family's routine, those carefully stitched together threads of custody orders and visitation schedules, began to unravel, replaced by a gnawing dread that something was terribly, terribly wrong. Hope tried calling the children's father, but the phone rang and rang and rang. No one picked up. With every unanswered ring, the fear inside her grew heavier. Unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong, she got in her car, drove straight to his apartment. His vehicle was still there, parked out front. But when she knocked on the door, there was only silence. No footsteps, no voices, Just silence. That's when the dread truly set in. Something was terribly off. In desperation, Hope called the police.
