Echoes Of Victor

Grief is supposed to unite, to soften hearts, to remind us of the love we once shared with the one who is gone. But since Victor’s passing, I have found myself not embraced, but rejected. Instead of compassion, I am met with coldness. Instead of understanding, I am met with hostility. I struggle to understand what wrong I have committed that justifies such treatment from Victor’s siblings. My actions since his death have been guided by one purpose alone: to preserve his memories and personal space for our son, Kenzo, so that he may grow up with tangible reminders of his father’s life and love. I have never demanded the return of belongings taken from Victor’s house. I have not sought financial gain, nor have I interfered in inheritance or property. My single and repeated request has been simple and human: access to photographs of Victor and Kenzo together. These are not possessions of wealth, but fragments of memory - irreplaceable keepsakes that belong to our son as much as to anyone ...

 “Love never disappears - it lives on in memory, in breath, and in our child”

They say death brings out the worst in people - and I’m learning how true that can be. Two months after Vic passed away, I was “unfriended” from his Facebook account. In their eyes, my grief isn’t valid because I’m the ex-wife, while they’re “the family.” But what they choose to forget is that I shared twenty years of my life with Vic - through the ups and downs, through raising our son, through everything that made us who we were. All I’ve ever asked for were sentimental keepsakes - photos of Vic and Kenzo together. That’s what mattered to me. Instead, I was met with cruel words: “As his ex-wife, you’re lucky to even get the house and the car.” Those words cut deep because they are simply not true. I didn’t get the house. I didn’t get the car. There’s nothing in Vic’s will that leaves me any of that. What I’ve been left with is not possessions, but the endless paperwork, the responsibility, and the heavy grief of raising our son without his father. Meanwhile, the things that truly mat...

Last night, as I turned off the light and tucked Kenzo in, the room was quiet - just the sound of his soft breathing and the creak of the bedsheets. Then, in the stillness, he whispered, “Mummy, this coming Father’s Day… I don’t have a father.” My heart stopped. I climbed into bed beside him, wrapped my arms around his little body and held him close. I could feel the weight of that truth pressing on both of us - his words so small, but so heavy. I whispered back, “You do have a father, baby. He lives in your heart. That’s where he’s still alive. And he will always be watching over you from heaven.” Kenzo didn’t say anything after that. He just snuggled into my chest, and I could feel his breath slow into sleep. Even in the dark, even in his grief, he lets me in. And I will keep reminding him that love never leaves - it only changes shape. From arms that once held him… …to the invisible string that still does.

Dear Vic, Why does it feel so hard to grieve you freely, without judgment or interference from others - especially your siblings? Thanh, in particular, has made this unbearable at times. He lashed out at me through text and even on social media, accusing me of things that aren’t true. He claimed I already had your house and car, when in reality, none of that belongs to me - they are part of your estate, set aside in trust for Kenzo until he turns 21. The cruelty didn’t stop there. Someone accessed your Facebook account, unfriended and blocked me, and even removed my tags from posts I made of you and Kenzo. Those posts were our memories, Vic. Memories of the life we shared, moments that were supposed to be preserved for Kenzo. And the timing - two months after your death - only deepened the hurt. I’ve had no choice but to reach out for legal advice. This isn’t about clinging to possessions or property. It’s about harassment, defamation, and the interference with your legacy - things tha...

Dear Vic, I don’t know how to carry this ache. I miss you so much - so much that sometimes it feels stronger than anything else in my life. Stronger even than my love for Kenzo, and that terrifies me. Because I know I should love him the most, I know he needs me more than ever… yet my heart keeps reaching for you. There are moments I find myself wishing I could just be with you, wherever you are, even if it means leaving this world. And then I think of Kenzo. Our boy. Your boy. How could I even imagine leaving him behind? What would he do without me, when you’re already gone? It feels like my love for you and my love for him are pulling me in two directions. But maybe they’re not really separate. Maybe my grief for you is so strong because my love for you was so strong. And maybe Kenzo is the thread that ties us still together - the part of you that remains in this world with me. Vic, if you could answer me now, I think you’d tell me to hold on. To keep loving Kenzo for both of us. To ...

Dear Vic, I just re-read our text messages from last October - about planning Kenzo’s birthday, care arrangements, my hospital stay, and your upcoming transplant. It feels like only yesterday we were bickering over little things like that, and now… you’re gone. Those messages hold so much of us - the good days, the bad days, the in-between. Even the smallest updates about Kenzo were written in your voice, carrying pieces of you that I didn’t realize I’d one day cling to. Now, without your replies, without our back-and-forth - even over the most ordinary things - life feels unbearably quiet. I miss you. I miss our conversations. I miss the way your words, whether gentle or sharp, always meant you were still here, still part of my days. And though I know you can’t, I still find myself whispering into the silence: Please… come back to us. Come back to me. — N

It has been two months since Vic passed, yet the grief remains sharp, raw, and unyielding. I cry each day - sometimes quietly, sometimes like a flood - when I think of him, when I look back at photos from this time last year, or when I revisit the words I’ve poured into my journal. One of my greatest regrets is not taking more photos of him earlier this year, during our February outings. I thought we would have more time, that there would always be another moment to capture. But now those few pictures feel like fragile treasures, too few for the weight of what they must hold. Kenzo, though, reminds me that memory is not kept only in photos. He holds his dad in ways that I cannot. He stretches out his hand when he runs, as if Vic is still there, holding it from heaven. He smiles when he remembers the little things - the way his dad ordered chicken feet at yum cha, the way they laughed over simple routines. Through Kenzo’s eyes, I see that grief is not only about absence, but about pr...

There are days I would give anything to turn back time - to undo the choices that led us to separation, to hold onto Vic a little tighter, to fight a little less, to love a little more. I wonder, if I had known what was coming, would I have tried harder to keep us together? Would we still have drifted apart? These questions circle endlessly, like shadows that never quite fade. Now, with him gone, the ache of those years feels sharper. It’s as if every argument echoes louder in the silence, every missed chance weighs heavier in my chest. I think about death sometimes - if I left this world, would I find him again? Would our souls meet where life’s divisions no longer matter? Or is that only wishful thinking, a story I tell myself to soothe the ache of missing him? And then another thought pierces through: would anyone miss me? The answer is both simple and overwhelming. Yes. Kenzo would miss me in ways that words could never measure. He would lose not just a parent, but his anchor, hi...

If Vic had time to write notes - for his will, for mediation, even about me being difficult during changeovers in the past - then why didn’t he leave any notes or letters for me, or for Kenzo, before he passed? I’ve searched through his emails. I’ve turned over the possibility in my mind again and again. But I’ve found nothing. It’s hard not to wonder why. Was it too painful for him to write a goodbye? Did he think he would have more time? Or maybe he believed words weren’t needed - that Kenzo and I would simply know. And yet, the silence hurts. Because legal notes and practical instructions are not the same as a father’s final words to his son, or a man’s last message to someone who shared twenty years of her life with him. Perhaps he thought that everything important had already been said - in the way he showed up for Kenzo, in the small acts of care, in the trips he still tried to take us on even as his health declined. Maybe his message lives in memories, not paper. But tonigh...

It’s been two months since Vic passed away, and today Kenzo joined his Running Club again - the first time since they last did it together, back when Vic was recovering from his first transplant. When I returned to work after Vic’s funeral, I asked if I could keep one of the two Running Club mornings with Kenzo, just for continuity. Thankfully, work agreed. This morning, as we stood on the oval, Kenzo told me that while running he stretched out his left hand - as if his dad were still holding it from heaven. “It made me feel happy” he said. In that moment, I realised he was finding his own way to keep his dad close. Not through words or photographs, but through movement, through memory, through something as simple as an outstretched hand. Step after step, lap after lap, Kenzo has found a way to carry his dad with him. Later, as we walked toward his classroom, he asked if I could create an anime picture of him running with his dad in spirit form - just like the ones I’ve made before. T...

Sometimes I wonder if life had been teaching me all along, in ways I didn’t recognise at the time. Was our separation five years ago meant to prepare me for this moment? A quiet sign, urging me to learn how to stand on my own, to live independently in case something ever happened to him? Back then, I thought the pain of parting ways was unbearable. The silence in the house, the absence of his presence, the way Kenzo’s world split into two homes - it all felt so heavy. And yet, looking back now, I see how I adapted, little by little. I learned to navigate on my own, to carry the weight of responsibility, to build a life for us in a different shape. But even with that hard-earned independence, this grief still cuts so deeply. If I’m mourning him this much now, even though we were no longer together, then how much heavier would it have been if we had still been side by side? Would the loss have broken me completely, or would the love we once shared have somehow carried me through? I’ll ne...

Dear Vic, It’s always around 4 a.m. The house is silent, the air still, and I find myself awake again - mind wide open, heart even wider. I lie there for a moment, trying to will myself back to sleep, but then you drift into my thoughts and I know it’s no use. So I reach for my pen, as if my hands already know what my heart is about to do. I write about us - our beginnings, our storms, our quiet moments, the life we built and the one we lost. It feels almost ritual now, this hour between night and morning, where memory and reality blur. I wonder if you’re here somehow, nudging me awake to keep our story alive. The world is asleep, but in these dark, tender hours, you are the most alive to me. And maybe that’s why I keep waking - because this is when you visit, when the noise of the day can’t drown out your presence. When the sun finally rises, I close my journal and step back into the world without you - carrying the echoes of what we were until the next time 4 a.m. finds me again. ...

The hospital room was quiet, except for the faint hum of machines and the sound of my own breathing - shaky, uneven. It was my second day visiting Vic. I sat beside his bed, fingers wrapped around his hand, my tears spilling freely onto the sheets. He looked at me with eyes that were tired yet still so familiar, and said softly, “I’ve left everything to Kenzo until he turns eighteen.” There was a pause, and then, with a weight I could feel in my bones, “You’re the boss now.” Through my tears, I shook my head and whispered, “No… I don’t want to. I want you to stay.” What did he mean by those words? That I would be the one to make the choices now - for Kenzo, for his life, for everything we’d once carried together? That the weight of both the past and the future was now mine to bear? He didn’t explain, and I didn’t press him. Some truths are too heavy for words, and maybe he knew this was one of them. But that sentence - You’re the boss now - has been living in me ever since. It rises ...

I’ve been telling Kenzo “I love you” every morning - a ritual that started long ago, when Vic was still alive and well. Back then, it was just a gentle reminder. Now, it’s something I cling to. A thread between the past and the present. A habit wrapped in meaning. I’ve told Kenzo many times, “No matter how upset we are with each other, we should always say ‘I love you.’ So we never live with regrets.” He always nods. Quietly. As if he understands just how much weight those words carry now. This morning, I hugged him like always and whispered, “I love you.” He looked up at me and said, “I think you love Dad more than me, even though you used to argue all the time.” My heart stopped. I crouched to his level, trying not to let the sudden ache show. “What makes you say that, baby?” I asked softly. “We both love you very much.” Then, after a pause, I added with a smile, “But I think Daddy loves you more - after all, he left everything to you.” And Kenzo… he wrapped his arms around me...

Dear Vic, The year has slipped through my fingers, fast and unyielding - yet those weeks when your illness returned seemed to stretch endlessly, heavy with fear. Now, nearly two months since you left, the ache has settled into the quiet corners of our days. We are still learning how to carry it. Last month, on impulse, I booked a trip to Vietnam for the end of the year - a thought that maybe, in a different place, the air would feel lighter, the grief less sharp. But then I remembered our last mediation in March, when you had gently said no to us travelling back this year. Perhaps you already knew time wouldn’t allow it. Perhaps, in your heart, you wanted to keep Kenzo close, to see him one more time before you slipped beyond my reach. Before the world shut down with COVID-19, Vietnam had been our rhythm - almost every year, returning to its warmth. That first trip back, we wandered from the misty mountains of the North to the sunlit rivers of the South. After that, Saigon became our a...

Dear Vic, You’ve been on my mind all day - memories surfacing in no particular order. I still can’t fully believe you’re gone. It feels like only yesterday we were disagreeing over some small thing about Kenzo, and now… you’re just not here anymore. I’ve never lost someone so close before. You’re the first, and I’m still learning how to navigate life without you - for both me and Kenzo. When I asked your sister for photos of you and Kenzo to keep, and for help unblocking me from your Facebook so I could see your last posts, her response felt like a wall: "I understand these things are important to you. We’ll make sure they’re addressed in time. Right now, it would mean a lot if family and friends could have some space to grieve. We can talk about the Facebook account, SIM card, and photos when we’re ready." It left me wondering - did she mean my grief is somehow less valid than theirs? Were the twenty years we shared not enough? Regardless, we’ll grieve you in our own ...

Dear Vic, Sometimes I wonder - when they offer to take Kenzo out, is it purely out of love, or is there something unspoken beneath it? Is it the warmth of family they want to give, or the part of him that carries everything you left behind? I was with you for twenty years - eighteen before Kenzo was even born. We stood together through thick and thin. Just because we weren’t together when you passed doesn’t make my grief any less real than theirs. Maybe they resent that you named me as Kenzo’s legal guardian, or that the executor reminded them decisions about your house rest with me. Maybe it’s because, after a year of caring for you, you still left everything to our son. I can see how that might sting, but the truth is, when you were younger, they weren’t always there. Other priorities came first. Important moments were missed. And there was a time - even when I was carrying our child - when I was told I wasn’t good enough for you. Before the executor stepped in, I was told some of...

Dear Vic, I’ve been worried about Kenzo’s quietness at home. I’ve tried to talk to him a few times, but I think he’s been holding it together for my sake - maybe he doesn’t want me to see how much he’s hurting. As his mum, I can’t help but worry about every little thing, especially when it comes to our child. So I reached out to the well-being officer at his school and arranged for a small catch-up session. They told me he’s  “feeling reasonably happy, with periods of sadness when he reflects on you and how much he misses you.”   He read a children’s book about a boy whose father had died and the feelings and memories he experienced. Kenzo spoke briefly about his own loss, showing he understands how it’s changed both his world and mine. But then, as if to shield himself, he shifted the conversation to other things - how well he’s doing in Mathematics, or asking to play a game of Uno. The book was called Finding Fwebbers , part of a series published by Lionheart Camp for Kids -...

When I visited Vic’s place recently, my eyes landed on a travel mug tucked away in the cupboard. It was one I had gifted him long ago - printed with Kenzo’s smiling face in bright red, frozen in a moment of pure childhood joy. The mug wasn’t spotless, nor was it forgotten. It bore the faint signs of use - not daily, but enough to show it had been part of his life. A quiet presence in his mornings, perhaps, or a companion on days he needed comfort. I brought it home and placed it beside my own, almost instinctively. A piece of him, of us, now resting in my kitchen. He never said much about those little gifts I gave - the mugs, the photo prints, the small tokens that carried Kenzo’s image. But I know, deep down, they meant something. Because how could they not? To see your son’s laughter etched into something so ordinary, to hold it in your hands as you sipped your coffee - surely, it must have brought him joy. And maybe, in those quiet moments, it reminded him that no matter the dis...

Dear Vic, I took Kenzo to visit you at your old house today. We lit incense and spoke to you, as if you could still hear us. I brought home some of your sentimental things - keeping them safe for the day Kenzo is grown. Last night, I asked if he was happy living with me. He said, “Yes… but I wish you could do some of the things Dad did.” When I asked what those were, he whispered, “Camping and bike rides.” His grandparents sometimes take him to the BMX tracks near my house, but it’s not the same. He misses the bike rides with you - the little adventures only the two of you shared. I could hear the longing in his voice - the quiet ache of how deeply he misses you. — N

I cried the moment I set foot in the hospital to see him during his final four days. The tears came without warning - sudden, deep, and raw. I had no control over them. Was that not enough to show him that I still care? Otherwise, why would I cry like that? I read him a letter while he listened. I don’t know how much he understood or felt in those moments, but I needed him to hear it. I needed him to know - even at the very end - that our story still mattered to me. Victor, Thank you for being part of my life for the past 25 years, and for the 20 years we shared a home and a journey together. Even though we’ve been separated for over five years, and there were many disagreements - especially about parenting and other things - I want you to know that I don’t hate you. I still hold dear the happy memories we once had, especially the time we spent preparing for Kenzo’s arrival into the world. Watching him grow over the past six and a half years has been one of the greatest joys of m...

Dear Vic, Your sister called me on June 13 to deliver the news - the kind of news that doesn’t feel real at first. That doesn’t register, even when you hear it out loud. I texted you right after, not knowing what else to do. I wrote: "Your sister called me. Is there anything I can do for you?" You replied: "Visit before I die." And that broke me. I stared at your message for so long, unable to process that this might be the last thing you’d ever say to me. I couldn’t comprehend it. Couldn’t believe that this was where we’d ended up - after everything. Yes, we had conflicts. We were tangled in misunderstandings, hurt, and distance. But I never - not for a second - wished you harm. Never wished you pain. I wanted you to stay. To get better. To come back to us - maybe not as we once were, but still us in some form. Still a family. Still tethered by love, even if broken love. But now you can’t. You’re gone. And all I have left are words I can’t unsay, me...

Dear Vic, I’ve been sitting with your words - the fragments you left behind in your journals. Sometimes they felt distant, almost like they didn’t carry the same love I feel so fiercely for you now. At moments, I caught myself wondering if you held me with less weight in your heart than I have always held you in mine. But I remind myself: journals are only pieces of a life. They capture moments, frustrations, burdens of a particular day. They aren’t the whole story. They don’t tell of the two decades we shared, the home we built, or the son we raised together. I don’t measure your love against mine anymore. I see now that you loved differently - in ways that weren’t always obvious to me, but were still there. You showed it in the things you kept, in the choices you made, and in the way you still wrote my name down as Kenzo’s guardian when you knew you wouldn’t be here anymore. That, too, was love. And here I am, still carrying you. More than ever, now that you’re gone. My love has grow...

Just before we turned off the lights for bed tonight, I turned to Kenzo and said with a soft smile, “Guess what, babe? I didn’t cry today.” He looked at me calmly and replied, “That’s good, Mum. I don’t want you to grieve too much.” His words were gentle, but they reached deep. I asked him why. Why didn’t he want me to grieve too much? And his answer was simple. “Because, Mum, we still have a lot of family - in Vietnam, in the US, and here.” I wasn’t expecting that. But it melted my heart. In his little voice, I heard perspective. Strength. A kind of hope that doesn’t erase the sadness but balances it. I pulled him into my arms, wrapped him in the warmth only a mother can give, and whispered, “And we have each other too, babe.” That’s what we hold on to now. Not just memories. But love. Family. And each other.

Last night, I asked Kenzo something that had been sitting quietly in my heart. “Would you rather see me being strong for you… or see me cry when I feel sad about Dad?” Without hesitation, he said, “I want you to be strong, Mummy.” I asked him gently, “Why?” And his answer broke me in the softest way: “Because if you cry, then I can’t concentrate, Mum.” Such a simple sentence, yet it carries so much. He’s only six… but somehow he’s already trying to keep it all together - not just for himself, but for me too. He wants to feel safe, steady, like things won’t fall apart if one of us stays strong. But oh, how I wish I could tell him it’s okay to let it fall apart sometimes. That strength isn’t the absence of tears - it’s the love that holds us through them. Still, I understand. He’s doing the best he can, in the only way he knows how. And so am I.

Tonight, I showed Kenzo the image I’d created of him and Polar Beary online - curled up under the cherry blossoms, dreaming of a faraway star. It felt like a quiet tribute, something tender for just the two of us to hold. He stared at it for a while, really looking. Then he turned to me and asked softly, “Can you post it on Facebook?” I blinked, surprised. “Why Facebook?” I asked. “And how do you even know about Facebook?” Without missing a beat, he said, “I saw you scrolling on it. Please post it on Facebook so your friends can remember Dad in their hearts too.” And in that moment, my heart caught in my chest. My eyes stung with tears I didn’t expect. Kenzo isn’t just missing his dad. He’s thinking about him. Remembering him not just as his father, but as someone who mattered to others too. Someone whose absence might quietly echo in the lives of people we barely talk about, or hear from. What made this moment even more meaningful was the cherry blossoms in the image - ...

Today, I came across Vic’s car insurance document - just another piece of paper in a growing stack of reminders that he’s no longer here. Most of it was expected… until I got to the exclusions section. There it was, written in black and white: "Excluded drivers: Any household member not listed above, any person under 40 years old, and NT." My name. Specifically. Why did he have to write it like that? Why not just leave it broad like the rest - “household members,” “under 40” - impersonal, detached? But he singled me out. Out of all the people in the world, it was my name he listed. Was it because I used to drive that car? The one he gave me for my birthday back in 2016? Even though it was under his name, it was meant for me - a gift. A symbol of something, once. And then, after we separated, he took it back. Maybe that decision hurt more than I admitted. Maybe it hurt him too. I don’t know if that line was written out of spite or caution, pain or pride. I just know it stung....

His mum said it more than once - that even after we separated, it was clear there was still love between us. “You brought him coffee and gifts every chance you got,” she reminded me. “And when you were sick with pneumonia, he was the one who took you to the hospital.” Small things, maybe. But intimate. Tender. Love in its quietest form. If there was still love between us, then why did it feel so draining? Why were we always at odds, always walking on the edge of misunderstanding? Was it pride? Fear? Pain too deep for either of us to reach across? If he loved me, why couldn’t he just say it? He signed the divorce papers. He could’ve ignored them. He could’ve fought for us, or even just said, “Don’t do this.”  Instead, I waited - not for a grand gesture, but for something simple: an apology. One sincere sorry for the harsh, cruel words he said to me five years ago. I needed to hear that he knew he’d hurt me. That he saw me. That I mattered. But no apology ever came. And still, in the...

Why is it that the more I go through Vic’s old things, the deeper the grief cuts? The tighter my chest feels. The more I long to see him - to turn back time and tell him that I still care. That I cared deeply. Still do. Yesterday I found one of his old journal entries, probably from around 2022, back when he was living in that rental in Morley. His words were short - scribbled fragments - but they held so much. So much restraint. So much unspoken emotion. The tension was there, written between the lines. The push and pull between wanting to let go and needing to hold on. Some of the notes stopped me in my tracks: “NT fixated on clothes/swap/wash/counts.” “Less annoyed/unsettled. Be stoic.” “NT joined us for swimming lessons Sat.” “Surprised - NT tell me about pending redundancy, then suspicious, heightened awareness of ulterior motive.” “Kenzo went into ED for vomiting x3.” “Pleased that NT included me in birthday invite as agreed.” “Overjoyed - Kenzo saying he wants to stay wit...

Dear Vic, You left everything to Kenzo until he turns 21, and a small amount aside to help me cover his school fees and daily needs. Nothing to your family - except Zoey. But why Zoey? Why her, to your brother? I was there the day we brought her home. I helped raise her with you. She was more than a pet - she was family. She curled up at our feet when we were too tired to speak, greeted us like joy itself when we came home, and lay quietly beside me when I was unwell. She watched us become parents. She watched us drift. She was a witness to it all. She was ours. So when I heard you’d given her to your brother, something inside me cracked. Not out of jealousy. Not even anger. Just sorrow. As if another piece of what we once built had quietly disappeared, taken without ceremony. And then there were the gifts - the ones I chose for you across the years: birthdays, anniversaries, quiet days when I just wanted you to feel remembered. You gave them away too. To your brother. Were they no lon...