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The House That Still Holds Him

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We went back to Vic’s house yesterday after the aqua park. The shift from chlorine and laughter to quiet rooms was abrupt. The house felt still in that familiar way - not abandoned, just paused. Like it was waiting. I lit an incense stick and stood there longer than I meant to. I spoke to him out loud, even though no one answered. I told him I don’t know if I can keep the house. I’m not sure I can afford it if I take over the loan. The numbers don’t lie. The bank won’t bend for sentiment. I was crying as I talked, holding the incense, trying to steady my voice so it didn’t break in half. It’s strange how practical decisions can feel like betrayals. In the background, I heard Kenzo coming down from the bedroom. Slow steps. He sat quietly on the stairs. I didn’t turn around straight away, but I knew he was there. Watching. Listening. When I finished “talking” to Vic and turned around, I saw Kenzo covering his face with his hands. He looked so sad, the kind of sad that doesn’t make n...
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Between Holding On and Learning to Breathe Again

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Dear Vic, It’s only been two weeks into our four-week holiday in Vietnam, yet I already find myself missing home. Not just the place but the routines. The structure. The predictable rhythm of days that once felt ordinary and now feel strangely comforting. I even miss the endless paperwork - the documents still waiting for my signature, the practical tasks tied to sorting through your house, and the slow, careful act of packing away pieces of a life we once shared. Those tasks ground me. They remind me that what we had was real. When you passed, part of me shut down. A quiet, stubborn part that refuses to move on... even now. It’s been seven months, and letting go still feels impossible. Some days, it feels like moving forward would mean leaving you behind, and I’m not ready for that. At the same time, another part of me keeps going for Kenzo. That part shows up every day.. keeping him active, curious, discovering new places, new people, new moments of joy. I watch him laugh on ride...
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Bringing You Home

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Dear Vic, Today, I brought you home - to our family’s ancestral altar, where we honour those who came before us, and those who are no longer here in body, but never absent in spirit. It felt important to place you here. Not as a guest. Not as a memory tucked away. But as family. I wanted you to be part of this space - the quiet centre of our family home in Mỹ Tho, so that whenever Kenzo returns here, he knows you are still with us. That you belong. That you have a place not just in stories, but in ritual, in presence, in continuity. This altar holds generations. Names, faces, lives that shaped who we are - even if Kenzo never met them. And now, you stand among them. A father. A link. A thread that connects past to future. I know our path wasn’t simple. I know there were years when we lived separate lives, when distance (emotional and physical) sat between us. But none of that erases what matters most. You are Kenzo’s father. You are part of his beginning. And you are part o...
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When the World Turns Without You

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Dear Vic, It’s New Year’s Eve tonight. Kenzo and I are in Nha Trang - we arrived yesterday morning. The city is loud and alive, counting down to something new. Fireworks are being prepared, music already spilling into the streets. Everyone seems ready to celebrate. I took Kenzo straight to VinPearl Island for VinWonders, hoping the excitement of the rides, the noise, the colour, the movement, might help him build new memories. Memories that feel light instead of heavy. Moments that don’t carry so much weight behind them. We were here earlier this year, remember? Back when you were recovering at home after your surgery. Even then, when you couldn’t travel, when your body needed rest, you were still there. Still calling. Still checking in. Still asking how Kenzo was going, what rides he liked, what he ate that day. This year feels different in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I tried to cushion the ache for Kenzo as much as I could. I let him spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with your f...
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If You Want to Stay

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I dreamt of Vic last night. We were in a house that felt like home - not a house I recognise, not a place from memory, but a space that carried the feeling of belonging. The kind of home that doesn’t need walls or an address to be understood. It was changeover time. He had come to pick Kenzo up. Vic looked tired. Not rushed. Not distressed. Just worn - like someone who had carried more than most, for longer than anyone should have to. Seeing him like that stirred something instinctive in me. I looked at him and asked, simply, “Do you want to stay?” There was no pleading in my voice. No urgency. Just an offering. He met my eyes and nodded quietly. And that was it. That was the whole dream. That nod stays with me. Not as a promise to undo what’s already happened but as something gentler. A moment where love wasn’t about obligation or schedules or separation. Just choice. Just presence. Maybe the dream wasn’t about changing the past. Maybe it was about giving both of us permission ...
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When December Wakes Before I Do

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I woke up at 4:19am today. No dream of Vic. No message from the other side. Just the table fan still humming quietly in the dark, left on because last night’s heat was unbearable. But the moment I opened my eyes, the weight was already there. December feels different this year. Heavier. Thicker. Like the air itself remembers something I’m still trying to forget. Kenzo’s school sing-along is this Friday. Another December event without Vic. Another moment I have to witness alone, smiling for Kenzo, holding back tears for myself. I keep thinking about the first time Kenzo had a school event at the new school. Vic didn’t make it then either. He had just been discharged from the hospital that very morning. Too weak. Too tired. Too unwell to step outside. He tried so hard to get better… and life never gave him enough time. What breaks me most is this: He worked so hard to buy the house in the catchment, just so Kenzo could have a better future. That was his dream - his gift. But ...
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When December Started to Feel Heavy

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There’s a particular quiet that comes with December, a quiet that isn’t peaceful, but reflective. A quiet that asks you to sit with everything you’ve lived through, and everything you’ve lost. This year, that quiet feels heavier than ever. As the days inch closer to Christmas, I find myself drifting back to Vic without even trying. He appears in memories, in smells, in songs, in the stillness before sunrise… and sometimes in the small, unexpected moments that catch me off guard. I keep replaying those final months, the sharp words said out of frustration, the misunderstandings, the regrets that only became clear once time ran out. I tell myself I didn’t know. I couldn’t have known. But grief has a way of pressing “rewind” on the moments you wish you could undo. And the strangest part is this: I miss even the arguments. Those fiery text exchanges that once felt exhausting… now feel strangely sacred. They meant we were still connected, still engaging, still part of each other’s orbit...
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