Echoes Of Victor

A few months ago, I asked Vic if Kenzo and I could go to the U.S. for my cousin’s wedding in December. He answered exactly the way I thought he would - logical, grounded, ever-practical. He warned me about the winter cold in America, how exhausting a long flight might be for a 7-year-old, and all the tiny details I hadn’t quite planned for yet. But it was what he said at the end that caught me off guard — and stayed with me. “I’d like to visit Austin, Texas one day too. They have an F1 race there every year, and I also have cousins in Texas.” Just like that - not advice, not worry. A quiet wish. Tucked between facts and caution was a sliver of something I hadn’t heard from him in a long time. Hope. A glimpse of the future. A dream, however small. Now I read that line over and over, wondering when that “one day” was supposed to happen. Because now, it never will. Six weeks since he’s been gone .....

Dear Vic, Life without you is a struggle. Between working full time and parenting full time, I feel like I’ve given everything I’ve got. These past few weeks, I’ve been doing my best to stay on top of all of Kenzo’s school activities and events - just so he doesn’t feel left out. Just so he doesn’t feel different. Last Friday was the school lapathon. The theme was Crazy Creatures and Cool Characters . I took Kenzo shopping and let him pick out a costume - he chose the cutest little Dalmatian outfit. That morning, he was beaming as he put it on… and he ended up doing 20 laps!  I was so proud of him. And yesterday was the 100 Days of School celebration. I dressed him up as a little old man - silver hair wig and all. The wig annoyed him, of course, but he kept it on just long enough to let me snap a photo. One more memory for us to hold onto. I wish you could see these moments. But I like to believe… maybe now, you’re watching with us - in spirit.  — N

Dear Vic, “Sau cơn mưa, trời lại sáng” There’s a Vietnamese saying - after the rain, the sky clears. Yesterday’s hailstorm rattled us all. And though the skies turned blue again today, there’s no peace in it. No sense of calm. Just silence. I’m sitting at my desk, looking out at the red archway that leads into the school grounds. And in my mind, I see you - walking through that gate, dropping something off for Kenzo. Just like you used to. Back then, I didn’t realise how much those small gestures meant - the quiet ways you showed up when I asked. I wish I had held onto them more tightly. Now, I can only see you in my mind’s eye… that familiar walk, that brief presence - just a memory now, echoing in the quiet. I wish you could see where Kenzo will one day walk as a high school student - the community he’ll grow up in, the paths he’ll choose. I hope he gets into this school, or somewhere even better. I wish we could’ve shared that pride together - parents side by side, watching hi...

Last night, while I stood at the sink washing dishes, Kenzo came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me. No warning. No words at first. Just warmth. Just love. Then softly, he said: “I want Dad to come back… but I feel like he likes it in heaven.” I froze. The tears came before I could even respond. There was something so whole in that sentence — something aching, but also accepting. Kenzo wasn’t just mourning his dad. He was reaching him , in his own way. Not through logic, not through questions, but through love and hope. I gently asked him to write it down in his diary. “Maybe” I said, “ Somehow , Daddy could read it from where he is.” And Kenzo nodded. As if he already believed that was possible. Five weeks since he’s been gone .....

When we visited Vic’s home a few weeks ago, I didn’t expect to find much more than the practical things we’d come for. But then his sister handed me a small bundle of laminated photos — snapshots of us, taken long ago. Some were from 2001. Others from seasons of our youth I barely remembered… but he had. He kept them. All of them. Through the years we were together. Through the years we were apart. Even when we no longer spoke often. Even when life had shifted so far from where it once was. And I’ve been wondering why. Maybe it was love. Maybe it was memory. Maybe it was his way of holding on to a part of his life that still mattered, even when everything around him had changed. People don’t keep things for no reason. Not like that. Not tucked away for decades. Those photos weren’t just old images — they were pieces of our story. Pieces of his story. And perhaps, a quiet way of saying, “This part of my life still meant something.” It made me realise that even if we didn’t end the way I...

This time last year, he took us to Busselton for my early birthday celebration. It was his idea - a quiet family trip by the water. The month before, I had surprised him with a river cruise for his birthday - his very first one. We had our ways of showing love, even when words fell short. Looking back now, I realise I missed the quiet effort he made. His health was already starting to decline, and yet he still drove 2.5 hours just to give me that day. I didn’t see it then - not fully - how much strength it took, how much love was tucked into that drive. This year, Kenzo asked if we could go back. But we can’t. Not because we’re still in mourning, though we are. But because I’ve never been brave enough to drive that far on my own. Vic was always our driver - our compass on the road, and in life. It’s been three weeks since he passed. And somehow, I’ve cried more in these three weeks than I ever did in the five years we spent apart. I think, deep down, I always felt he was still there. S...

Twenty years together. Twenty-five years of knowing each other. And the boy who now carries the best of us both. This isn’t just a goodbye. It’s everything I never got to say out loud. It’s love. It’s grief. It’s the echo of someone who shaped my life — and the little boy who still carries that echo every single day. Victor passed away from leukemia two weeks ago today. He fought hard for almost a year, but it was relentless - sudden, aggressive, and far too cruel for someone like him. It still feels unreal that he’s gone. We were together for 20 years. We met 25 years ago - we were young, full of big dreams and unspoken fears. Life changed us. We had our seasons of closeness and seasons of conflict. But somewhere in between the mess, we built a life. And then came Kenzo - the most beautiful thing we ever created together. He was a devoted father. At his memorial, everyone said so - his kindness, his quiet strength, his deep love for Kenzo. They said he raised an intelligent, thoughtfu...