The Letter That Never Came

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 tonight, I ache for the letter that never came. A letter that might have said, “I loved you in my own way. I was proud of us. I’ll always be with you, even if you can’t see me.”

I will never know why he didn’t leave those words. What I do know is that Kenzo and I will keep speaking them for him, to each other, for as long as we need.