Jan 13, 2026

Texas Rep. Steve Toth Defeats Dan Crenshaw in GOP Primary-GHT-1

In a major primary upset with national implications, State Rep. Steve Toth defeated four-term incumbent U.S. Rep. Dan Crenshaw in the Republican primary for Texas’s 2nd Congressional District on March 17, unseating one of the most recognizable GOP members of Congress.

With most precincts reporting, Toth opened a decisive lead and declared victory hours before the race was formally called. The Associated Press later confirmed the result. The outcome effectively ends Crenshaw’s congressional career, barring an unforeseen political return, and positions Toth as the heavy favorite to win the Houston-area seat in November in a district that leans reliably Republican.

The race had evolved into a proxy battle over the ideological direction of the Republican Party, particularly within Texas. Toth ran as an unapologetic MAGA-aligned conservative, arguing that Crenshaw had drifted away from grassroots priorities and had not consistently delivered on campaign promises.

In a statement following his victory, Toth emphasized commitment and follow-through. “Congressional District 2 voters want a representative in D.C. who will stand firm in his convictions, fight for his constituents, and follow through on his promises. I won’t let them down,” Toth said.

The language was widely interpreted as a pointed contrast with Crenshaw, who had campaigned in previous cycles as a strong conservative but had drawn criticism from parts of the Republican base over several high-profile positions.

Crenshaw, a former Navy SEAL who lost an eye in combat and rose quickly in national GOP circles after first being elected in 2018, had typically cleared primaries with double-digit margins. This cycle proved markedly different. Despite outraising Toth by approximately $1.3 million, Crenshaw was unable to overcome mounting dissatisfaction among conservative activists and primary voters.

Toth’s campaign framed the race as a referendum on what he described as “establishment Republicanism” versus a more populist, America First approach. According to reporting from the Texas Tribune, Toth is widely considered one of the most conservative members of the Texas House. He has frequently clashed with party leadership and has questioned policy decisions by Gov. Greg Abbott.

The primary also drew the involvement of prominent conservative figures. Sen. Ted Cruz backed Toth, as did Turning Point Action, a national grassroots organization aligned with the party’s right flank.

Crenshaw also faced backlash for comments made after the 2020 presidential election. While some Republican lawmakers called for sweeping investigations into alleged irregularities, Crenshaw publicly rejected claims of systemic fraud altering the outcome.

“It was always a lie. The whole thing was always a lie,” Crenshaw said in a 2022 interview, criticizing what he characterized as political theatrics surrounding the issue. Those remarks alienated segments of the GOP base who believed the election required deeper scrutiny.

During the 2026 campaign, critics also accused Crenshaw of insufficient loyalty to President Donald Trump. Trump did not endorse Crenshaw in the primary, a notable absence in a race increasingly defined by alignment with the president.

Toth amplified additional lines of attack during interviews, including raising questions about congressional stock trading and political accountability. Crenshaw strongly denied allegations that he had profited improperly from stock transactions, stating that he had not made a trade in three years and that his total gains during his time in office amounted to less than $46,000.

Following his defeat, Crenshaw attributed the result in part to online misinformation and what he described as the “power of clickbait.” In comments to the Texas Tribune, he said many voters were reacting to narratives that did not accurately reflect his record.

“It’s not like anyone was going to the polls saying, ‘I disagree with that vote,’” Crenshaw said. “Too many people are not discerning through the clickbait.”

Texas’s 2nd Congressional District encompasses parts of northern and eastern Harris County, including suburban communities north of Houston. The district has trended Republican in recent cycles, meaning the GOP nominee typically enters the general election with a structural advantage.

With Crenshaw now out of the race, attention shifts to the general election, where Toth is positioned as the presumptive favorite. Whether the upset signals a broader pattern in Texas politics remains to be seen, but the primary outcome marks one of the most consequential Republican shakeups of the 2026 cycle.

No One Came for Leo

Part 1

No one showed up to be the directed blood donors for my seven-year-old son’s high-risk surgery.

Not my mother.

Not my sister.

Not one person who had posted online about how much they loved him.

Three days later, I discovered they had raised $15,420 on a fake GoFundMe in his name.

Not for his surgery.

For my sister’s designer wedding.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry in front of them. I didn’t throw a chair through a window, even though God knew I wanted to.

I sent my mother exactly fifty cents through Venmo with a note.

Buy a veil. I reported the fraud.

Then I froze every account their names touched.

At dawn, the bank manager called me, whispering.

But before that phone call, before the wedding collapsed, before my mother learned what kind of daughter she had created, there was only Leo.

The morning of my son’s surgery, I stood in the pediatric wing of Seattle Memorial Hospital, watching the automatic doors open and close for families that were not mine.

They came carrying coffee, blankets, stuffed animals, balloons that said Get Well Soon and You’ve Got This. Grandparents held tiny hands. Aunts whispered prayers. Fathers paced with red eyes and clenched jaws.

I stood there alone.

Leo was seven years old, and he had learned too early how to pronounce words like arterial reconstruction and oxygen saturation. He was small for his age, with dark hair that curled at the ends and eyes that somehow looked older than mine whenever a nurse entered the room.

His blood type was rare enough that the hospital had taken extra precautions. Three weeks before surgery, my mother, Evelyn, and my younger sister, Chloe, signed paperwork agreeing to be directed blood donors. They made a show of it, naturally, because nothing in my family counted unless someone could turn it into theater.

Mom took a selfie outside the donor center.

Chloe posted a story with a crying emoji and the caption, Anything for my brave nephew.

Family above everything.

That morning, family was nowhere.

At 5:58 a.m., Leo squeezed my fingers. His lips had a faint blue tint, the kind I had trained myself not to stare at because panic helped nobody.

“Is Grandma lost in the parking lot?” he whispered.

My throat closed.

“She’s probably on her way, buddy.”

He nodded like he believed me, because children are cruelly generous that way. They will hand adults trust even after adults have dropped it a hundred times.

At 6:10, I called my mother.

Straight to voicemail.

At 6:12, I called Chloe.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Nothing.

At 6:15, Dr. Hassan stepped into the room with that careful face doctors use when they are trying not to frighten you, which naturally frightens you more.

“Mrs. Miller,” he said quietly, “we cannot delay much longer.”

I looked past him toward the hallway, as if my mother might suddenly appear with her oversized purse and loud apologies. As if Chloe might rush in wearing sunglasses indoors, blaming traffic, the weather, the universe, anything except herself.

No one came.

“We have blood available,” Dr. Hassan said. “But not the reserves we hoped for. We’ll proceed with every precaution.”

Every precaution.

That meant they would try to save my son without the safety net my family had promised him.

Leo was wheeled toward surgery under blue blankets. He clutched a small stuffed otter my late husband, Daniel, had bought him during his first hospital stay. One of the otter’s button eyes was scratched. Leo called him Captain Finn.

Right before the doors swung open, Leo looked up at me.

“Tell Aunt Chloe I wasn’t scared,” he said.

That broke something clean in half inside me.

I kissed his forehead and told him he was the bravest person I knew.

Then the doors opened, swallowed him, and closed.

For seven hours, I sat in a waiting room full of vending machine coffee and other people’s prayers. I stared at my phone until my eyes hurt.

No text from Mom.

No missed call from Chloe.

No How is he?

Not even a heart emoji, which was apparently too much emotional labor for the same people who had posted birthday collages of Leo every year like they were running for office.

My husband had died four years earlier in a highway accident outside Tacoma, leaving me with a grieving toddler, a mortgage, medical bills, and a family that offered help in public and invoices in private.

Mom always said, “Rachel, you don’t have to do everything alone.”

Then she made sure I did.

When Dr. Hassan finally came out, his surgical cap still on, I stood so fast my knees nearly gave.

“He’s stable,” he said.

Stable.

Not fine. Not safe. Not easy.

But alive.

I covered my mouth and cried so hard the nurse put both hands on my shoulders.

Leo survived.

For three days, that was all I allowed myself to care about.

His chest rose carefully beneath the hospital blanket. Tubes ran from his arms. A monitor beeped beside him. Nurses came and went. I learned the rhythm of every machine. I knew which alarm meant danger and which meant a sensor had slipped loose. I slept in twenty-minute fragments with my cheek against the plastic railing of his bed.

On the third afternoon, Leo opened his eyes and whispered, “Did Grandma bring Captain Finn’s hat?”

I smiled because he needed me to.

“Not yet, baby.”

“She forgot?”

I brushed his hair back from his forehead.

“Maybe.”

He looked toward the window, trying so hard not to be disappointed that my heart folded in on itself.

That evening, while Leo slept, my phone buzzed.

It was a message from my old neighbor, Melissa.

Rachel, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know things were this bad. I donated what I could. Praying for Leo.

Under it was a link.

I clicked it.

The GoFundMe page loaded slowly on the hospital Wi-Fi.

Help Save Little Leo Miller.

My son’s hospital photo stared back at me.

Not one I had posted.

One taken from my private Facebook album two years earlier, cropped so you couldn’t see Daniel’s hand holding Leo’s shoulder.

The description said Leo was fighting for his life and that his mother was overwhelmed, financially devastated, and too proud to ask for help.

At the bottom, in bold letters, it said:

Organized by Evelyn Parker and Chloe Parker.

Raised: $15,420.

My hands went cold.

There were comments from church friends, cousins, former coworkers, neighbors, people who had never once called me.

God bless your family, Evelyn.

Chloe, you’re such an amazing aunt.

Anything for sweet Leo.

I scrolled with a sickness crawling up my throat.

Then I saw a recent update from Chloe.

Thank you all. Because of your love, we are able to move forward with the most important day our family has faced this year.

Under it was a photo.

Not of Leo.

A wedding dress.

White satin. French lace. Custom veil.

My sister was standing in a bridal boutique, crying happy tears while my mother held champagne.

The caption said:

Dreams do come true.

I stared at that screen until the words blurred.

They had not forgotten Leo’s surgery.

They had chosen not to come.

Because they were at a bridal fitting.

I left Leo with his nurse and walked into the hallway. I called my mother first.

This time, she answered.

“Rachel,” she sighed, already annoyed. “I was going to call you.”

“No,” I said. “You weren’t.”

A pause.

“What is your problem now?”

I looked through the glass wall at my son sleeping under hospital lights.

“You raised money using Leo’s name.”

Mom went silent.

Then she laughed softly.

“Don’t be dramatic. It was for the family.”

“For Chloe’s wedding.”

“Her wedding is in two weeks,” Mom snapped. “She has waited her whole life for this. Leo had doctors. Chloe only has one wedding day.”

Something inside me went quiet.

That was the moment I stopped being her daughter.

“No,” I said. “Now she has a crime.”

I hung up.

Then I did what my family always forgot I knew how to do.

Before Daniel died, I had worked in financial compliance for North Pacific Bank. After his death, I handled his estate, Leo’s medical trust, and every legal document my mother thought was boring enough to ignore.

I knew fraud.

I knew restricted funds.

I knew exactly which forms to file.

By midnight, GoFundMe had been notified. The state attorney general’s office had the complaint. The bank’s fraud department had the account numbers. The bridal boutique, the venue, the florist, and the photographer had all received copies of the fundraiser screenshots.

Then I sent my mother fifty cents.

Buy a veil. I reported the fraud.

Thirty-six minutes later, Chloe started calling.

Then Mom.

Then Chloe’s fiancé.

Then my uncle.

Then cousins who suddenly remembered my number.

I answered none of them.

At 4:41 a.m., my phone rang again.

This time, it was not family.

It was Samuel Reeves, the manager of North Pacific Bank’s downtown branch.

His voice was low.