What You Left Behind

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 longer special? Were they too tangled with memories you didn’t want to carry anymore? Or did you assume they didn’t matter to me either - that they had lost their meaning, just like we did?

Vic, I’m not asking these questions to accuse you. I’m just… trying to understand.

Because a part of me still remembers the man who used to smile when Zoey jumped into your lap. The man who once whispered that she made the house feel like a home. The man who carefully unwrapped every gift I gave and placed them somewhere meaningful. The man who, for a long time, saw me - even if only briefly, even if imperfectly.

Now all I’m left with are pieces. Of your will. Of your absence. Of a silence I can’t explain to Kenzo when he asks about you in his small, steady voice.

Maybe the answers are gone with you. Maybe they lived in a part of you you never let anyone touch - not even me. But I needed to write this down anyway. Because the not-knowing lingers like a question with no punctuation. And somehow, it hurts more than grief itself.

Still, I’m trying.

I’m trying to remember you with gentleness. To show Kenzo your love, even if some parts were buried in silence. To honour the good - for him, for myself, for the memory of us.

However broken, however unfinished.

— N