If I Had Known

Vic’s mum called me over yesterday.

His dad and brother were there too, and his sister joined in through a video call from Vietnam. They all sat together, waiting. And then, without many words, his mum brought out a small collection of his belongings - his documents, his bag, his wallet, his house and car keys - and placed them gently on the table before handing them to me. She said his executor had asked her to pass them on.

I held those things in my hands, unsure what to feel. The weight of the keys. The texture of his old wallet. Items so familiar, yet now so final.

Later that evening, after dinner, she sat me down and began to share things about Vic’s final months - things I hadn’t expected to hear.

She told me that five years ago, not long after our separation, Vic had told her he wanted to get back together with me.

And it’s true. He did ask.

But it was only a month or two after we parted ways, and I was still bleeding from everything that had broken between us. There was no apology. Just a quiet, almost casual, “Can we get back together?” I remember saying, “If I see change in you, I’ll consider it.”

But the change never came. Or maybe it did, just not in the way I needed. Instead of growing closer, we grew distant. His words hardened. He told me coldly that his family were his now - no longer mine to reach out to. That hurt more than I ever let on.

When his sister invited Kenzo and me to her wedding in Vietnam last year, Vic was furious. He demanded to know why she hadn’t asked his permission. But she’s an adult. She gets to choose who to share her moments with. I wasn’t even sure I would go, but I thought - this is Kenzo’s aunt. It would be his first overseas trip, his first taste of where his roots come from.

Vic eventually agreed, but only with conditions: that he would come too, and that I’d stay at his parents’ apartment.

I genuinely thought we still had time.
Not to start over as husband and wife, but to soften into something else - co-parents at peace, maybe even friends. But that hope… was stolen. Cut short before we ever got there.

I wish we had both been braver. Brave enough to put our pride aside and admit that beneath all the anger and misunderstanding, we still cared.

And I know he cared.
He cared enough to take me to the hospital when I had pneumonia.
Enough to visit me every day with Kenzo while I recovered.

But when it was his turn in hospital, I wasn’t there.
I had just been discharged. I was back to full-time parenting, full-time work, keeping things afloat, while he was silently slipping in and out of the ward.

There were days his parents weren’t even in the country. And he was here - alone - still taking care of Kenzo. He never let on. His messages were fiery and distant, like always. But I had no idea how much the illness had returned. How far it had gone. I didn’t know.

And because I didn’t know, I couldn’t be there.
I couldn’t sit beside him.
I couldn’t say all the things I’m carrying now.

If I had known…

If I had known, maybe I would’ve forgiven faster.
Held softer.
Shown up more.

Maybe I wouldn’t be grieving this deeply - this silently - now.

Because maybe, just maybe, I would’ve had the chance to say everything I needed to say… before it was too late.