One Mom's Powerful Story of Her Son's Fight for Life After Highland Park Mass Shooting

Keely Roberts and her 9-year-old son Cooper were shot in last year's July 4th tragedy near Chicago; Cooper was paralyzed from the waist down, but his mom says he "inspires her" every day

On July 4, 2022, the community of Highland Park, Illinois, was rocked by tragedy when a gunman opened fire on the town's Independence Day parade — killing seven people and injuring more than 40. Among the victims were 46-year-old Keely Roberts and her son Cooper, 9, who was hit in the back with a bullet that exited his chest, damaging his aorta, liver, esophagus and spinal cord, paralyzing him from the waist down. His fraternal twin brother, Luke, was also wounded.

In the year since — following months in the hospital and numerous surgeries — Cooper has adjusted to his new normal. With support from his family, including stay-at-home dad Jason, 49, and sisters Payton, 27, Ella, 23, Grace, 22, and Emily, 19, he returned to school and has started swimming and playing tennis. “There is no quit in this kid,” says Keely, whose loved ones set up a GoFundMe to cover living expenses, Cooper’s medical costs and the cost of adapting a home to Cooper’s needs (gofundme.com/f/coopers-home).

Alleged gunman Robert Crimo III, 22, is awaiting trial on 21 counts of first-degree murder, 48 counts of attempted murder and 48 counts of aggravated battery with a firearm. His father, Robert Crimo Jr., 59, was also arrested on seven counts of felony reckless conduct for allegedly helping his son procure a Firearm Owner’s Identification Card. The Robertses, along with dozens of others, also filed a lawsuit against the Crimos, manufacturer Smith & Wesson, online distributor Buds Gun Shop and retailer Red Dot Arms. “We moved to Highland Park because it was safe. And then this happens,” says Keely, a former school superintendent. “But by the grace and kindness of others, a lot ofg ood has happened too.”

Here she shares her family’s story in her own words.

I try not to look back and wonder why things happened the way they did. The night before the parade I felt we were going to wake up and be a well-oiled machine. Then it started to unravel — an Amelia Bedelia kind of morning. Ella was running late, and Cooper was adamant he wasn’t going without her — they’re just tied at the hip — so it was hard for him to leave the house. But once we left, I have this very distinct memory of how beautiful the day was, and how happy the boys were, talking about cleaning up on candy at the parade. They were excited to get there and see friends.

Then I remember Jason saying to me, “Who threw the firecracker?” And I remember saying to him, “I’m shot.” Jason’s just the most even-keeled person, but I’ll never forget the look on his face. There was an overwhelming amount of pain, and I remember Jason taking his hands and holding my leg and my foot together. It’s true what they say about how time slows; between the shooting and the crowd running, it was so loud, like a war movie. And it wouldn’t stop. The boys were standing there in shock, and Jason and I had to decide what to do: get on top of them in hopes that the gunman would kill us, and the boys might live — or get them to run. I screamed to them as loud as I could that I would count to three, and they should run and not stop — and Mommy would find them.

But when I got to three, I realized Cooper was already down and shot. And when I looked at him, I was certain he was dead. His color was gray, his eyes were open, he wasn’t responsive — but I still kept yelling at him to run. Jason picked him up and said, “I’ve got to go, I’ve got to take Cooper and go find help,” and then he went to grab Luke too. But I said, “You can’t — Luke cannot see Cooper die.” And Jason said, “But he can’t see his mother die either.” Jason left with Cooper, and with every last bit of strength I had, I pulled Luke to me. A man came to help me—one of so many extraordinary people who came back and put themselves in harm’s way to help us and our family. Without them, Cooper would not be alive.

The nurses at Highland Park Hospital got me through the worst moments of my entire life. When Cooper was about to be medevaced to UChicago Medicine Comer Children’s Hospital just before my own surgery, they said they’d wheel me over to see him—but told me the team wouldn’t be able to stop his bed; they could only slow down for a moment. That’s when I knew how serious this was. The ER was silent as they slowed down around the corner so Jason and I could tell Cooper we loved him. The medevac nurses told me they would love him like he was their own, and that was all I could ask for. As a mom I wanted him to feel how loved he was. I yelled out to him to fight, and he did.

After several weeks in the PICU, Cooper was transferred to the Shirley Ryan AbilityLab, where he started an intense inpatient physical therapy regimen. The day I told him he was paralyzed was the hardest day of my life. Luke had done a book report in school about astronaut Neil Armstrong walking on the moon. And in the hospital I talked to Cooper about how people thought it was crazy that Neil believed he could walk on the moon, but he was determined. Cooper asked, “Am I paralyzed now, or am I going to be forever?” And I told him that right now the doctors didn’t know if he would ever be able to walk again, but he should think about Neil Armstrong, who believed he could walk on the moon even though nobody else did. And if I believe, and Dad believes, and we all keep believing, someday he will walk again.

Getting out of the house for school is a process. Cooper was fiercely independent, and he’s lost that, which is hard for him. But I wish everyone had the view we have outside our van at drop-off. Luke pushes Cooper in his wheelchair down the ramp, and then a friend comes up and takes the handle. I know so many of the kids at their school were at the parade, and there is something really healing about them being together. For some, I hope it’s helped to see Cooper getting through it, and for him, he knows he has the love and support of his friends.

It’s been heartbreaking to watch Cooper no longer be the super athletic kid he was; he’s a soccer player, but there aren’t great adaptive soccer alternatives. This event took everything from him. But he still comes home from therapy and says, “Let’s go play tennis!” He just had his first swim meet, and he rocked it. And we’re hopeful.

Sometimes I worry more about Luke emotionally than Cooper. What he witnessed is a horrific, indescribable experience, and I think he carries burdens that he doesn’t have the ability to articulate at his age. He’s so concerned about keeping Cooper and me safe.

Luke got a scooter after this all happened, and at home he is on it from the minute he wakes up to the minute he goes to bed. He has this subconscious thought of, “If my brother’s on wheels, then I’m on wheels.” There are times when Cooper will tell him he doesn’t have to stay with him or that he can go to the park or play soccer, but Luke’s like, “I don’t want to play without you.” I can’t even describe their bond now. They look out for each other in ways that bring me great peace.

A lot of people have asked if we’ll stay in Highland Park. There’s been such an outpouring of love, I can’t imagine ever being anywhere else. We worked hard to build a life we were proud of. Now I can’t work, and I was the sole breadwinner. You don’t think about it until you’re in this situation, but it is financially devastating to survivors. Everything about life is different, in a moment.

It’s very easy to feel angry. But we also try to focus on what we can draw strength from. We look at all the good, the generosity, the kindness, the love. You can either feel broken by this, or you can look at Cooper. I’m inspired by him every day. He is a happy little boy, and man, if he can stay happy throughout all of this, I can too.

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