Three years ago in January, we arrived home late at night after two weeks of visiting family in San Diego over Christmas vacation. I was behind the wheel of our minivan and as I drove up our hill, noticed a light on in the kids’ bathroom. I knew we hadn’t left on any lights—our house sits on a busy corner so we were lax with things like security lights although always careful to lock every window and door—and I asked Mateo if he’d left one on. He said no and I said, “You must have because a light’s on in your bathroom and I know it wasn’t me.”
I pulled into the garage and Mateo jumped out of the car, unlocking the door to the kitchen with the housekey I gave him. Tim, Olivia and Charlie our dog were asleep, and as I said, “Wake up, guys, we’re home,” Mateo came running back to the car and said “Mom, everything inside is upside down everywhere.”
Tim, Olivia and Charlie startled awake and we rushed in to find a scene like one you see in a movie. Every drawer and cabinet opened and dumped out. Every surface, every container, every piece of furniture, ransacked.
We must have been in shock because it took a minute to realize we’d been robbed.
We rushed to the master bedroom where the sliding door to my closet was torn off the wall and thrown to the floor. That’s when I saw the broken glass in the bathroom. That’s also when I realized whoever had crawled through the window might still be in the house. “We have to get out of here!” I screamed.
My whole body started to shake uncontrollably.
Tim and I grabbed the kids and Charlie and ran out the front door while I punched in the number for the Tiburon police. The dispatcher’s voice was soothing as she talked to me nonstop, telling me help was on the way, the police were coming, they’d be there soon and to stay on the line.
Patrol cars sped up and two officers told us to wait outside while they checked the house, which we did, huddled on the driveway in a group hug. Now the house was ablaze with light and the night air so cold we could see our breath. My mind began to go to places of what-ifs and worst-case scenarios. At this point, I was shaking so hard my teeth chattered.
Finally, the officers gave us the clear signal, and one of them, Sergeant Sean Christopher, sat down with each of us in the living room and asked questions gently, taking notes as he spoke. Only then did I stop shaking because Sergeant Christopher’s calm presence reassured me we were safe, nobody was hurt, it was only stuff, everything was going to be okay.
Since then, my family and I have spoken many times about how grateful we are to Sean Christopher and the Tiburon police for their speedy response and professionalism.
Which is why we were devastated to learn that Sergeant Christopher killed himself on Monday from an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound. The newspaper article gave no reason why. Only that he was 46 years old, married and a father of five. The article also stated that more first responders die by suicide every year than in the line of duty, and that first responders have a life expectancy of 15 years less than civilians.
None of us can ever know another person’s full story. My family knew Sergeant Christopher only briefly, but he made a strong impression on us as a good man. May his soul rest in peace.