The house in Indiana was supposed to be quiet that night.
It was supposed to be another tense evening, perhaps, but survivable.
No one expected it would become a crime scene heard through the voices of children.
Inside that home lived Jeri Mains, a 44-year-old mother of four.
Friends say she was exhausted, frightened, but resolute.
Days earlier, she had done what many abuse victims are urged to do — she filed for a protective order.
The man she sought protection from was her husband, Cecil Mains, 46.
Police and witnesses say the marriage had collapsed under accusations of abuse and infidelity.
Jeri had kicked him out of the house after learning he had been cheating.
The protective order was meant to create distance.
It was meant to create safety.
Instead, it became a haunting footnote in a case that unfolded too fast.
On the night of the shooting, the children were home.
They ranged in age from 10 to 19.
They were old enough to understand fear, but far too young to be asked to survive it.
According to investigators, Cecil Mains arrived armed with a .380 handgun.
What happened next lasted only moments.
But those moments will echo in the children’s lives forever.
Gunshots rang out inside the house.
Then more shots followed outside, in the driveway.
Jeri Mains was struck in the heart, liver, and spine.
She collapsed where her children could see her.
She collapsed where they would never forget.
She collapsed knowing the danger she had tried to escape had found her anyway.
The first 911 call came from the 14-year-old.
Then another from the 19-year-old.
Then the voice that would break the hearts of seasoned dispatchers — the youngest child.
“My dad is shooting my mom!” the 10-year-old cried.
The words came out between panic and disbelief.
A child describing the unimaginable in real time.
“I’m hiding,” the child told the dispatcher.
“My mom has a restraining order against him.”
“I can’t live without her.”
Police reports describe chaos in the background of the calls.
Shouting, crying, confusion.
The sound of a family unraveling in seconds.
By the time officers arrived, Jeri was gravely wounded.
Despite emergency efforts, she could not be saved.
She died where she had tried to protect her children — at home.
Cecil Mains was taken into custody.
He was formally charged with murder days later.
The probable cause affidavit painted a grim, straightforward picture.
There was no mystery about who pulled the trigger.
There was no confusion about who witnessed it.
The only unanswered question was why protection came too late.
Friends say Jeri had been afraid for weeks.
She confided in people close to her that the abuse was escalating.
The cheating, they say, was only part of a larger pattern of control.
She did what many survivors are told to do.
She documented.
She filed paperwork.
But a protective order is only paper.
It does not block bullets.
It does not stop rage.
Advocates have long warned about the most dangerous period in abusive relationships.
It is not during the relationship itself.
It is when the victim tries to leave.
Jeri leaving was an act of courage.
It was also, tragically, a trigger.
The system did not move fast enough to shield her.
Her children now carry memories no child should hold.
They carry the sound of gunfire.
They carry the memory of their mother’s last moments.
The 19-year-old’s voice on the 911 call was shaking but clear.
“My dad just shot my mom,” they said.
“He shot her in the house and in the driveway.”
Those words will likely be replayed in court.
They will become evidence.
They will also become scars.
Family members describe Jeri as deeply devoted to her children.
She was the glue of the household.
The one who kept routines alive even under stress.
Now the house is silent.
Her children are scattered between relatives and support systems.
Nothing feels permanent anymore.
Cecil Mains now sits in jail awaiting trial.
The legal process will move slowly.
Justice, whatever form it takes, will not bring Jeri back.
What remains is grief.
And questions.
And a growing chorus demanding change.
How many times must victims ask for help before it works?
How many children must dial 911 to save a parent — and fail?
How many warnings must be ignored before systems evolve?
Jeri’s story is not isolated.
It mirrors countless others across the country.
Protective orders filed, warnings issued, danger underestimated.
Experts say domestic violence cases require urgent, proactive intervention.
Not days.
Not weeks.
For Jeri Mains, time ran out.
Her courage was real.
The protection was not.
Her children will grow up with unanswered “what ifs.”
What if police had arrived sooner?
What if he had been detained after the order?
What if the system had believed her fear was immediate?
What if safety had meant more than paperwork?
What if leaving didn’t mean dying?
In the end, Jeri’s voice was silenced.
But her story is now loud.
It demands to be heard.
It lives in the words of a child whispering into a phone.
It lives in the echo of gunshots no one should hear at home.
It lives as a warning written in grief.
If protection orders are to mean anything, they must come with action.
If victims are to survive, they must be believed fully and urgently.
If children are to be spared, prevention must come before tragedy.
Jeri Mains should still be alive.
Her children should not know what a murder sounds like.
And no child should ever have to say, “I can’t live without her,” into a 911 call.