Reba McEntire knows what it’s like to go through tough times. In 1991, something really sad happened to her. While she was performing at a big event in San Diego, a plane crash happened after the show. Her tour manager and seven band members, who were like family to her, died in the crash.
The crash happened on March 16, 1991, right after Reba and her band gave an amazing performance.
After the show, some of the band members were supposed to fly to Fort Wayne, Indiana, for the next concert. Reba, her husband Narvel Blackstock, and her stylist Sandi Spika stayed in San Diego for the night. They didn’t get on the plane that crashed.
In 2012, Reba McEntire talked about what happened in a sad interview with Oprah Winfrey. The second plane that took off safely reached its destination.
But sadly, the first plane crashed only ten miles away from the airport. This crash changed the lives of the people left behind forever.
Reba told Oprah that the first plane crashed into a boulder on the edge of Otay Mountain, and everyone on board died. When they heard the news, Reba’s husband Narvel talked to their pilot.
Narvel came back to the hotel room late at night, around two or three in the morning, where Reba was waiting. The tragedy made the atmosphere heavy. Narvel told Reba that one of the planes crashed.
Reba asked about their friends, hoping they were okay. But Narvel’s answer made her lose hope. He said, “I don’t think so,” which made them both feel unsure.
Reba and Narvel wanted to know all the details about what happened to their loved ones. Reba’s voice shook with real sadness as she talked about how Narvel looked for answers on the phone. She said, “It’s been 20 years, but the sadness never really goes away.” Reba remembered how Narvel paced around, feeling really sad.
Reba found comfort in her close friends, like Vince Gill and Dolly Parton. After the tragedy, they offered to help finish the tour, but Reba said no.
Instead, she focused on healing herself. She poured her heart into her next album, “For My Broken Heart.” It was a way to remember her lost friends and show her love for them.
The album did really well. It debuted at No. 1 on the Billboard Top Country Albums chart and sold four million copies.
Every year, Reba McEntire remembers the people who died in a sad incident. She uses social media to keep their memory alive. In 2014, she made a special post on Instagram to remember the anniversary of the crash.
Then, in 2016, on the 25th anniversary of the tragedy, Reba went to San Diego, a place that was important to her because of what happened. She shared this important journey on social media with her fans, so they could see how she was doing.
Reba wrote a heartfelt message herself. She said, “Today is the 25th anniversary of the plane crash. I went back to San Diego in November and took a helicopter to the crash site. I felt like the people who died knew how much we miss them. I send my condolences and prayers to all the families and friends affected by this tragedy.”
MY HUSBAND LEFT ME AND OUR KIDS FOR HIS MISTRESS – I WAS FURIOUS AND TOOK MY REVENGE.
The bitterness tasted like ash in my mouth. How could he? How could he just walk away, leaving us like discarded toys? Mark, my husband of fifteen years, the man I’d built a life with, had traded us in for a shiny, new model. A twenty-year-old, no less. A coworker. I’d suspected something was off, the late nights, the secretive phone calls, but I’d pushed it aside, trusting him. Foolish me.
The day I caught them, at that cheap motel on the outskirts of town, was seared into my memory. The look on his face, a mixture of guilt and something disturbingly close to relief, still haunted my dreams. He didn’t even try to deny it, just mumbled some pathetic excuse about “finding himself.”
The divorce was a whirlwind of lawyers and paperwork, a cold, clinical process that stripped away the remnants of our life together. He’d agreed to everything, too quickly, too easily. I was left with a pittance, barely enough to cover a few months’ rent.
Then came the real insult. He’d put our marital home, the house where we’d raised our kids, the house filled with memories, up for sale. And he’d listed it for an absurdly inflated price, far exceeding the online valuation used during the financial order. The judge had signed off on it, seemingly oblivious to the glaring discrepancy.
I was left scrambling, barely able to make ends meet, while he was raking in a fortune. Seeing that listing online, the photos of our home, now staged and impersonal, was like a knife to the heart. It was a constant reminder of everything I’d lost.
But the final straw was when his new fiancée, the mistress, announced on social media that they were buying a “dream home” because they were expecting a baby. A baby! He was building a new life, a new family, while my kids were struggling, while I was drowning in debt. The injustice of it all was suffocating.
I was consumed by rage, a burning desire for revenge. I wanted him to feel the same pain, the same despair, that he’d inflicted on me. I wanted him to understand the consequences of his actions.
It wasn’t until I visited my former mother-in-law, a woman who had always been kind to me, that a plan began to form. She was as devastated by Mark’s actions as I was. We sat in her cozy kitchen, sipping tea, and she told me stories of Mark’s childhood, of his father’s own infidelity, a pattern repeating itself.
Then, she mentioned a small, overlooked detail. A safety deposit box, inherited from Mark’s father, containing… well, she wasn’t entirely sure. She’d always assumed it was just old documents.
The next day, I went to the bank. I’d remembered Mark mentioning the box once, years ago, but he’d dismissed it as unimportant. I presented myself as his legal representative, using a power of attorney document I’d obtained during the divorce proceedings, a document Mark had signed without reading thoroughly.
Inside the box, nestled amongst faded photographs and yellowed letters, was a stock certificate. A substantial amount of shares in a company that had recently skyrocketed in value. Mark, in his haste to leave, had completely forgotten about it.
I sold the shares.
The money, a significant sum, allowed me to pay off my debts, secure a comfortable apartment for myself and the kids, and even put a down payment on a small business.
I didn’t tell Mark. I didn’t gloat. I simply moved on, building a new life for myself and my children. The satisfaction wasn’t in the money, but in the knowledge that I had taken back control, that I had turned his betrayal into my liberation. And maybe, just maybe, he’d learn that some things, like family, are worth more than any fleeting infatuation.
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