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Christopher Pence loves kids. Not in the normal “two kids and a dog” way. No — for him, the idea of family means as many children as you can possibly fit under one roof. He wanted the kind of family that would make strangers shake their heads and say, “Wait, how many?” And the wild part is, his wife Michelle didn’t just agree — she matched his energy. If Christopher wanted a house full of kids, Michelle was ready to fill it. And for a while, it worked. But the bigger the family got, the harder it was to keep things under control — and the Pences’ choices led them into situations no one could have ever predicted.
Christopher and Michelle Pence hadn’t planned on having an enormous family. They met as teenagers in a small community north of Seattle — two kids with faith, ambition, and matching certainty about what their lives would look like.
They married in 1999, when Christopher was 19 and Michelle was 21. A year later, she gave birth to twin girls. They were young, inexperienced, and already building a life faster than they expected.
Back then, Christopher dreamed of downtown skylines. He wanted to make money — real money — through finance and real estate, to live in a penthouse, and maybe raise a few well-dressed kids.
Michelle shared that vision. She imagined herself working, maybe in business or design, living comfortably beside her ambitious husband. Kids, she thought, would come later, once things were settled.
But “later” came immediately. Pregnancy followed pregnancy, each one unexpected but increasingly accepted as divine timing. The career goals started to fade into the background as diapers and bottles filled the space instead.
By the time she became pregnant with their fourth child, Christopher felt the weight of it all. He scheduled a vasectomy — a quiet admission that they’d reached their limit, or so he thought.
A year after the vasectomy, something shifted. Christopher began reading scripture more deeply, drawn to passages about obedience and faith. He told Michelle that maybe his earlier decision had defied God’s plan.
So he reversed it — literally. The procedure was undone, and so was the idea of control. From that moment forward, they promised to “trust God to open and close the womb.”
Christopher’s faith stopped being private and started shaping every choice they made as a couple. And with that promise, their lives were about to hit a big turning point.
In his mid-20s, Christopher’s focus turned from ambition to scripture. He spoke often about “God’s will,” quoting verses about leadership, faith, and what it meant to be the head of a household.
He began to believe that children weren’t just blessings — they were assignments from God, a tangible proof of obedience. “A man’s wealth,” he told friends, “is counted in his children.”
That conviction spread through the household. Michelle embraced it too, reshaping her understanding of marriage around motherhood. What began as ordinary family life was becoming something closer to ministry.
By the early 2000s, the Pences’ house just north of Seattle had become a kind of domestic sanctuary. The day began before sunrise with prayer and Bible study, led by Christopher in a soft, deliberate tone.
Michelle homeschooled the children, folding lessons about grammar and math into stories from Genesis. Each meal, each chore, each bedtime routine was another opportunity to practice obedience.
Their faith gave structure to everything. And yet, as the number of children grew, so did the exhaustion — the kind that hides beneath devotion and repetition.
Michelle chronicled their life online in long, earnest posts. She wrote about her evolving role as a wife and mother, how she learned to find holiness in submission and joy in sacrifice.
She quoted books like Created to Be His Help Meet and The Power of Motherhood, praising their message that women were designed to serve. “I had no idea,” she wrote, “how much God values motherhood.”
Her blog painted a portrait of serenity — a home filled with laughter and light. But between the lines, you could feel the strain of someone convincing herself she was content.
By 2017, Michelle had given birth to 10 children. Their home was full of motion — the thrum of chores, homeschooling lessons, and the sound of hymns drifting from the kitchen.
That same year, tragedy struck. Their 5-month-old infant died of sudden infant death syndrome. It was devastating, but Christopher and Michelle didn’t question it. “God’s perfect will,” they said, quietly, to their children.
Grief became part of the family’s faith language — something endured, not discussed. And even in mourning, they pressed forward, trusting that the next child would bring new purpose.
Even with 10 biological children, Christopher and Michelle began to feel called toward something larger — adoption. “It’s what God does for us,” Christopher said. “He takes in His children.”
For Michelle, it was personal. She’d grown up in a broken home, meeting her father only three times. Her siblings were scattered through foster care. “I know what it’s like to be left behind,” she wrote.
They wanted to adopt a sibling group — children who might otherwise be separated. “We’ll keep them together,” Michelle said. “God kept us together.” They had no idea how prophetic that line would become.
The Pences spent years navigating adoption agencies — completing home studies, psychological evaluations, and endless interviews. Each time, they were turned away. Their family, they were told, was already too large.
They prayed about it constantly. “If it’s God’s will,” Michelle wrote on her blog, “He’ll open the right door.” But after every closed one, she grew more certain that obedience meant persistence.
Then, in 2018, the door finally opened — though not through an agency, but through a stranger on the internet asking for help.
That summer, Christopher took six weeks of paternity leave from Microsoft. He packed their ten children into an RV, stocked it with supplies, and headed east for a cross-country trip.
They visited Yellowstone, the Henry Ford Museum, and Acadia National Park, turning the drive into a moving classroom. Michelle chronicled each stop online — snapshots of faith, family, and road-worn devotion.
Somewhere between Michigan and Maine, she logged into a message board for homeschooling families. One post stopped her cold: a mother of six in Massachusetts looking for temporary help with her children!
The woman’s name was Christina Cordero. She and her husband, Francisco, were struggling — six children, financial stress, and no place to live after selling their home in Western Massachusetts.
Behind the family’s hardships were deeper issues. Francisco had long battled personal demons that strained their marriage. He later admitted to struggling with sexual behavior that had affected his family and followed him since his teenage years.
Michelle read the message twice. The tone was desperate. Christina needed someone to take her children “for a few months” while she and Francisco worked on their marriage. To her, it was divine timing — the answer to years of waiting for God to send more children.
The Pences drove their RV to Massachusetts to meet the Corderos. They prayed together, shared stories, and promised to stay in touch. Christina confided that she didn’t feel her children were safe with Francisco.
Christopher suggested they take the children temporarily, until things stabilized. They left, continued their trip, and returned a few days later to find the Corderos ready to agree.
They signed a caregiver-authorization affidavit, a notarized contract granting the Pences medical and educational authority. The oldest, who had special needs, stayed with his parents. The others climbed into the RV and never went back.
When they left Massachusetts, the Pences had 15 children — 10 of their own, five belonging to the Corderos. The RV, once a symbol of freedom, became impossibly cramped.
The children were confused but compliant. At Mount Vernon, when a tour guide asked if they were all one family, one Cordero child said quietly, “No — they took us from our parents in Massachusetts.”
Christopher brushed it off as childish misunderstanding, but the line lingered. Somewhere between Massachusetts and Washington, what had begun as charity started to look more like possession.
When the Pences returned to Washington, the house was louder, fuller, and more chaotic than ever. Michelle called it a “season of blessing.” In reality, it was a season of exhaustion.
The five Cordero children were homesick, crying at night and asking when they’d see their parents again. Michelle tried to fill the gap with structure — chores, homeschooling, and relentless order.
Authorities eventually checked in. A Snohomish County deputy noted the home was “large, very clean,” and that all 15 children “appeared healthy and happy.” But the report couldn’t capture the tension simmering inside.
Fifteen children meant constant motion. The older ones helped with lessons; the younger ones cleaned and cooked. Prayer was mandatory, and scripture filled every corner of their 1,900-square-foot home.
On her blog, Michelle wrote that the Cordero children “missed their parents like crazy,” describing “disharmony” and “epic meltdowns.” The entry was a confession and a glimpse into her unraveling patience.
She reminded readers that “obedience brings peace” and gratitude was now something to be enforced on their children. But in the Pences’ desperate attempt to preserve a wholesome family image, someone eventually pushed back.
Ten days before Thanksgiving, Michelle announced a new rule: each child had to say one thing they were thankful for before they could eat dinner.
It sounded like a wholesome exercise, but the Cordero kids struggled. One girl began to cry, saying there was “nothing to be thankful for.” Michelle blogged about it as a spiritual lesson.
Her post ended optimistically — her “bio children” were teaching gratitude to the others, she wrote — but the subtext was clear: love in the Pence household came with conditions.
With 15 children in less than 2000 square feet, there was barely room to breathe. Beds were stacked, mealtimes staggered, and the sound of footsteps never stopped.
Christopher began searching Zillow listings late at night, looking for something bigger. Microsoft allowed him to work remotely; there was no reason they couldn’t start fresh somewhere else.
In 2019, he found it — a 4,150-square-foot house on eight acres in Hawkins, Texas. To Michelle, it was another answer to prayer. But in reality, it was just the start of a bigger problem.
They packed everything they owned, loaded the RV again, and drove 2000 miles south. The Texas property was sprawling and green — a new chapter for a family that had outgrown everything.
The Cordero children seemed happier at first. The land meant space, animals, and room to play. Michelle posted photos of kids in matching shirts, writing, “God has richly provided.”
But peace didn’t last. Back in Massachusetts, the Corderos had another baby — then made a decision that would reignite everything the Pences had tried to leave behind.
By late 2019, Christina and Francisco Cordero had moved to Texas, too. They said it was to stay close to their five children — the ones now calling Christopher and Michelle “Mom” and “Dad.”
The Pences were unsettled. What felt like divine order to them now seemed threatened by the very people who’d given their children away. Distance had been their peace; proximity turned it into tension.
But both families tried to remain cordial. The visits continued, the emails grew strained, and beneath every polite exchange lingered resentment.
That December, the Pences traveled back to Washington for the final step — the formal adoption of the five Cordero children. The courtroom was crowded, the air celebratory, the family dressed in coordinated outfits.
In the photo taken that day, Christopher and Michelle sit side by side on a courtroom bench, surrounded by rows of children filling every seat around them. On the surface, it’s perfect — a portrait of abundance and faith fulfilled.
But for the Corderos, it was a day of mourning disguised as closure. They had signed away their parental rights. For the Pences, it was victory. For the Corderos, it was a loss. A loss they couldn’t brush off.
Even after the adoption, the visits didn’t stop. The Corderos drove two hours each way to see their children, often asking for more time, more contact, more involvement than the Pences were willing to allow.
One of the Cordero boys asked excitedly if he could see his parents now that they lived nearby. Christopher told him gently that things didn’t work that way anymore.
“Structure,” Christopher said, “keeps a family together.” But what he called structure, others saw as control — and what began as gratitude curdled into something that felt more like a threat.
The Pences’ new home in East Texas was beautiful but isolating — eight wooded acres, thick with heat, snakes, and scorpions. “Everything down there is trying to kill you,” Christopher joked to friends.
But the Cordero visits continued. Sometimes, they arrived unannounced. Other times, they lingered too long. Each interaction deepened Christopher’s frustration and Michelle’s paranoia that their household was being watched.
At night, after the children slept, they talked about moving again. To their friends, it sounded impulsive. To the Pences, it was divine protection — God’s way of saying it was time to flee.
In November 2020, the family packed up once more and drove west. Their destination: Cedar City, Utah — a quiet, high-desert town surrounded by red cliffs and mountain snow.
They bought a seven-bedroom house for $659,000, finally… enough space for everyone. Christopher’s retired parents moved in, too. Twenty people now shared one home, bound by faith and exhaustion.
In Utah, they told no one where they’d come from. The Corderos didn’t have their address. It was a fresh start — at least, that’s what the Pences wanted to believe.
In Cedar City, the Pences joined Valley Bible Church, a small evangelical congregation that quickly embraced them. Christopher, Michelle, and their children filled an entire pew every Sunday.
They stood out, even in a faith community used to large families. Their pastor, Tom Jeffcott, described their home as “a model of love, learning, and understanding.” On the surface, it was flawless.
But behind the order was exhaustion. Despite beginning their mornings with Bible study, nights ending with cleaning and prayer, they knew their illusion of peace was not permanent. It was breaking.
Not long after settling in Utah, the Pences confided in Pastor Jeffcott. They said they were being harassed by Christina and Francisco Cordero, who had moved several times within Texas, each time settling closer to the area where their five biological children lived.
The Pences described threatening emails and phone calls. They claimed the Corderos were trying to disrupt their home, to reclaim influence over the children they’d given away.
Jeffcott listened, prayed with them, and introduced them to an attorney. But fear had already rooted itself in Christopher’s mind — fear that faith and prayer might no longer be enough.
Christopher saw himself as the family’s defender. He believed it was his God-given duty to keep his wife and 16 children safe from sin, corruption, and outside interference.
Michelle encouraged that sense of duty, calling him “the priest and protector of this home.” But that belief twisted into paranoia. Christopher started to think danger was closing in — that someone was watching, waiting.
To him, that someone was the Corderos. He felt their presence everywhere, as if they were haunting his home from afar. And he saw the need to protect his family. But that protection was becoming an obsession, and that obsession was turning into something far more dangerous.
In May 2021, Christopher and Michelle drove back to Texas to meet the Corderos face-to-face. What was meant to be reconciliation only deepened mistrust on both sides.
After the meeting, one of the adopted Cordero children told Christopher she’d seen bruises on her eldest brother — the one with developmental problems who still lived with the birth parents. She said Francisco had held him down. That was all Christopher needed to hear.
He returned to Utah shaken and consumed by anger. If God expected him to defend his family, he thought, then perhaps it was time to act in ways others wouldn’t understand.
That summer, Christopher turned his home office into a command center. He closed the door, plugged in a USB drive, and booted up a secure operating system known as Tails.
It was software favored by privacy advocates and whistleblowers — and by people who didn’t want to be found. Using it, he accessed the dark web and began to search for something unthinkable.
He landed on a site called the Sinaloa Cartel Marketplace. It offered weapons, drugs, and murder-for-hire. Christopher didn’t hesitate. He created an account and began to type.
On a weekday morning in July 2021, Christopher sat alone at his desk in Cedar City, Utah. His family was downstairs — homeschooling, cooking, unaware of what he was doing.
Through the Tails operating system, he logged into the Sinaloa Cartel Marketplace and wrote his first message: “Good day, Admin. I have a couple targets—husband, wife—that I need removed.”
He described the job with chilling formality, attaching the Corderos’ photos and home address. Payment would be in Bitcoin. He even asked if he could get a discount since both victims lived together.
Christopher transferred $16,000 worth of Bitcoin to the site’s escrow account and waited. He believed he’d hired a killer. In reality, he’d wired money to a group of Romanian scammers.
The “Sinaloa Cartel” was a façade — one of many fake assassination markets run by an anonymous fraudster known online as Yura. Victims didn’t die; clients just lost money.
But unlike most scams, this one didn’t disappear quietly. Behind the scenes, hackers were watching, recording, and passing information to journalists — and, eventually, to law enforcement.
Six thousand miles away, in a flat in South London, a cybersecurity researcher named Chris Monteiro discovered vulnerabilities in Yura’s network. He began quietly collecting data — every message, every Bitcoin transaction.
Monteiro had been tracking these dark web “hitman” sites since 2016, exposing users who thought they could pay for death anonymously. He’d seen scams before, but this one was unusually active.
As he sifted through the logs, one message caught his attention — a request from a man in Utah targeting a couple in New York. The name attached to it was Christopher Pence.
Monteiro contacted producers working on a BBC true-crime series about online murder-for-hire schemes. They, in turn, passed the data to the FBI. Agents in Albany, New York, took it seriously.
In early September 2021, FBI agent Brian DeCarr drove to Hoosick Falls, where the Corderos were living, to deliver the news. “Someone’s trying to have you killed,” he told Christina.
At first, she refused to believe it. She thought of the upcoming family visit to the Utah zoo. “There’s no way,” she said. “Please make sure my kids are safe.”
On the morning of October 27, 2021, Christopher’s alarm went off at 5:55 a.m. He led family Bible study, sang “Happy Birthday” to one of his children, and began another ordinary day.
Minutes later, flashing lights filled the windows. Armed agents surrounded the house. “It felt like Armageddon at my front door,” he would later say. “And I was the only one standing in the way.”
He opened the door calmly. “Good morning,” he said, as the FBI closed in. Inside, his children kept cooking breakfast, unaware their father’s secret life had just ended.
Agents led Christopher to a Chevy Tahoe parked in the driveway. The morning air was cold, the mountains still blue with dawn. He didn’t resist, didn’t ask for a lawyer.
Inside the car sat Agent Brian DeCarr and Utah-based Agent Chris Andersen. “You’re not under arrest,” DeCarr told him. “We’d just appreciate your help.” Christopher nodded, eager to explain himself.
He spoke openly, describing his family, his faith, and his job at Microsoft. The agents listened as if chatting with a neighbor. But every word brought him closer to admitting what he’d done.
Ninety minutes into the conversation, DeCarr shifted the tone. He presented screenshots of messages, Bitcoin transfers, and the Corderos’ photos. “You’re the protector of these kids,” he said. “You’d do anything for them, right? What got you to this point?”
Christopher’s voice cracked. “On more than one occasion, the children have been abused… through discipline, through the birth parents,” he stammered, gasping for composure.
DeCarr pressed gently, framing Christopher’s actions as love gone too far. “You were doing what you had to do,” he said. When Christopher nodded, the case was sealed. A solid confession.
The agents stepped outside to call New York for a warrant. Christopher stayed in the car, thanking them for “doing what you’re doing.” He was polite, almost relieved, as if confession was release.
Inside the house, the children were calmly cooking breakfast while soft music played. Watching them, one officer murmured, almost to himself, “Maybe kids are better off without TikTok.” Christopher laughed.
Minutes later, DeCarr returned. “You’re under arrest for soliciting murder.” Christopher’s calm finally cracked. “Have I ruined my life?” he asked quietly, as the agents led him away.
When the sentencing hearing began in Utica, New York, both families were there. The Corderos sat near the front, quiet and tense. Across the aisle sat Michelle and her children.
The children looked toward their father, their faces unreadable — torn between the man who raised them and the one who tried to erase their birth parents from the world.
When the judge entered, the room fell still. For a moment, it was hard to tell whether this was justice or just another tragedy orbiting two families forever linked by faith and fear.
News of Christopher Pence’s arrest spread quickly through Cedar City. To neighbors, he’d been a quiet man with a huge family, the kind who waved politely but rarely lingered to talk.
After Christopher’s arrest, Michelle became the sole provider and caretaker for 16 children. The family’s income vanished overnight, and she told church friends that she would rely on faith to survive and that “God is good all the time.”
Behind closed doors, she began selling belongings, taking odd jobs, and depending on community donations. Faith, once a shield, was now her only lifeline.
In late 2023, Christopher Pence pleaded guilty to one count of soliciting murder via the internet. In court, he was soft-spoken, apologetic, and still dressed with the neatness of a man who once led prayers.
The judge called the case “different” from any he’d seen. Usually, he explained, the defendants were hardened criminals with long records—people whose violence no longer surprised him, but Christopher wasn’t like one.
The judge sentenced Christopher to seven years in federal prison in 2021. He will be eligible for release in 2028 — having missed 112 of his children’s birthdays. By then, the youngest will barely remember him. The oldest may never forgive him.
At the sentencing, Christina and Francisco Cordero watched Michelle and the children sitting together, as if nothing had changed. “Our kids were sitting with him,” Christina said later. “Like they still supported him.”
It was a moment of heartbreak she hadn’t prepared for. She thought about all the miles, all the calls, all the years spent fighting to stay connected to the children she lost.
The Corderos left the courtroom in silence. The drive home was long, heavy with the knowledge that forgiveness — for any of them — might never come. But they weren’t the ones who were the most affected…
Back in Cedar City, Michelle’s household tried to resume its rhythms — morning prayers, homeschooling, shared chores, the same routines Christopher once orchestrated with precision. But the balance was gone.
The older children carried the weight quietly, stepping into parental roles while their mother navigated exhaustion. A few of them found jobs at a small manufacturing plant nearby, handing her their paychecks to keep the house running.
In letters from prison, Christopher wrote about faith, patience, and redemption. But even in his words, there was an ache that faith couldn’t quite erase.
What will happen when Christopher Pence leaves prison is far from certain. His sentence will end, but the question of whether he can return to his old life remains unresolved.
He and Michelle are still the children’s legal guardians — both biological and adopted. He has the legal right to return to his family, but this right is highly vulnerable. One phone call to child welfare could trigger an investigation.
If a judge believed the children were endangered, they could be placed in foster care. Just as likely, Michelle could face an ultimatum: the children or Christopher.
Shortly after Christopher’s arrest, Michelle remained anchored in faith. In Facebook posts, she wrote about taking “the next step in faith” and trusting God to give grace at each turn.
She declined interviews and avoided public comment on her husband’s crime. Her focus, she said online, was keeping the children stable and continuing their homeschooling routine.
In her mind, the family’s trials were another test — a storm they were meant to endure, even if they’d never fully understand it. But as the dust settled, it became clear that real faith starts from both families acknowledging their mistakes.
The Corderos’ choices defy easy sympathy. They gave away five of their children — not just to strangers, but to another family already overflowing with its own.
And yet, after surrendering them, they had more. As if they believed new children could erase the ones they’d lost, like hitting a reset button on parenthood.
Parents don’t get to start over that easily. Raising children isn’t optional when life gets hard. The Corderos’ decision didn’t solve their struggle — it multiplied it, leaving scars no reunion can heal.
For the Pences, the warning is just as clear: faith without balance can destroy what it’s meant to protect. Christopher and Michelle believed more children meant more blessings — that abundance proved devotion.
But devotion turned into denial. Sixteen kids became too many for one home, too many for one mother to carry alone. Love spread thin is not love made stronger — it’s love strained to breaking.
Having more children doesn’t open heaven’s doors. What matters is not how many you have, but how well you raise them — with fairness, patience, and the wisdom to know when enough is enough.
Disclaimer: This story is for entertainment purposes and may include fictional or enhanced elements. “Careless.…
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