The Things He Didn’t Say

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 with me all the time.”
“Brother did not turn up to Kenzo’s birthday. Parents helped but reluctant.”

So matter-of-fact. But I could feel his conflict - the weariness, the control, the moments of joy he didn’t know how to express aloud. I sat there crying, reading his thoughts that I never got to hear in person. If only he had told me. If only we’d had that one conversation where we both let the guard down.

Because what I never said was this: I was hurting too. I wasn’t trying to be difficult - I just didn’t know how to process the heartbreak without lashing out sometimes. And I see it now. I know I made things harder than they needed to be. I demanded more than what was fair, especially when I was scared or overwhelmed. But he still tried. Even when I gave him every reason to step back - he still showed up.

When I told him that wherever he planned to buy a house, it had to be in the local intake zone for the high school I wanted Kenzo to attend - he didn’t argue. He just quietly found a place. One that fit all the boxes: close to a good primary school, inside the high school catchment, with enough space for Kenzo to grow into. No big gestures, no praise expected. Just quiet action.

That was love too. Maybe not the kind we once celebrated, but a steadier, more complicated kind. The kind that lived in the details - in birthday invitations, in weekend swimming lessons, in the silent agreement to still raise Kenzo as a team even after everything.

Now I’m here, holding onto his scraps of thought like they’re scripture. Wanting more time. More answers. More of him - in words, in presence, in breath.

But I’ll take what I can get.
And I’ll keep reading - not just his notes, but the story of our lives as I try to understand all the things he didn’t say.