In Him, We Remain

Twenty years together. Twenty-five years of knowing each other. And the boy who now carries the best of us both.

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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, thoughtful boy. And they were right. But I was there too. Through the tears, tantrums, milestones, and midnight cuddles - I helped raise him too.

And yet, standing there at the memorial, I felt like a stranger. Like the years I spent loving him, building a life with him, raising our son together - somehow didn’t matter anymore. It was as if my place in his story had quietly faded into the background. I know time changes things. I know people grieve differently, and sometimes words are all they have to give. But the truth is, it’s been hard to feel like I truly belonged - especially in these recent years. I try to understand, to hold space for everyone’s pain… even when theirs doesn’t seem to hold space for mine.

And maybe that’s why this grief feels so heavy. It’s not just about losing Victor. It’s about everything that was left unsaid, everything that went unseen.

People tell me not to blame myself, not to hold on to regrets. But I do. I try to be strong - mostly for Kenzo - but it’s hard.

Because even though we were no longer together, we had history - messy, complicated, real. Twenty years is not nothing. It was something. He was something. To me, he always will be.

Kenzo asked me if we could bring a photo of Victor with us wherever we go - “so dad can still come along.” That simple request broke me in the softest way. It made me realise just how much Kenzo still feels his dad with him, how tightly he’s holding on to what we once were - a family of three. And even though it’s just the two of us now, I’ve promised to keep Victor’s wishes alive. I’ll keep showing up for Kenzo - for both of them - in all the ways that matter, in every season still to come. I’ll get him into the best high school, just like his dad always hoped.

We’ll keep doing the things Victor loved - containers for change, going bowling, mini golf, the Gravity Discovery Center or playing air hockey at the arcades - but it will never feel the same without him. His absence is loud in the quietest places: beside me in the car, in the pauses at dinner, in the empty seat next to us at the movies. And yet, even in his absence, he’s still here. I see him in the way Kenzo thinks, in his laugh, in that spark of stubbornness that’s so unmistakably his. A part of Victor is still walking with us - through our son. And wherever we go, we’ll carry him with us. Always.

So I’m writing this not just to say goodbye, but to remember the good, the hard, the complicated. To honour the man I once loved, the years we shared, and the son who now carries us both - forward, bravely, beautifully.

Dedication:

For Victor — for all the years we shared.

And for Kenzo — who carries the best of us both.