Echoes Of Victor

Some memories arrive quietly — not through dreams, not through grief, but through the smallest, most ordinary moments. This morning, Kenzo asked for egg soldiers for breakfast. Just a simple request, something he’s said so many times before… but the moment the words left his mouth, something inside me shifted. A warmth. A sting. A memory. Suddenly I was back in that moment with Vic — the day he asked me how to make egg soldiers the exact way Kenzo liked them. He had already tried so many times on his own. And Kenzo kept telling him gently, with that matter-of-fact honesty kids have, “Dad, that’s not how Mum makes it.” I remember the way Vic looked at me then — a mix of frustration, determination, and genuine love. He wanted to get it right for his son. Not just close enough. Not his own version. He wanted to make it exactly the way Kenzo loved it. I talked him through everything step by step: • letting the eggs sit out until they reached room temperature • bringing the pot of wa...

Some days, no matter how hard I try, I still can’t understand Vic’s family — or what their intentions truly are. Their behaviour has been inconsistent, contradictory, and at times deeply hurtful. And the more I sit with everything that has happened, the more I realise that I don’t need to make sense of them — I only need to make sense of what’s right for me and Kenzo. His sister once dismissed my grief for Vic as if it didn’t matter at all. His brother accused me of “having my hands on Vic’s house and car keys,” as though I somehow took something that belonged to them , as if the life Vic and I built together — the home, the memories, the shared responsibilities — suddenly ceased to exist because it was convenient for him to rewrite the story. To them, I was simply “the ex-wife.” A title they weaponised whenever it suited them. But grief doesn’t obey titles. Love doesn’t disappear just because a relationship changes form. Two decades of history don’t vanish because someone choose...

The more the days pass, the more I realise that grief doesn’t just live in the memories we cherish — it also lives in the ones we never got the chance to make. Waking at 4am feels like slipping into a space where time loosens its grip. The world is dark and still, but inside, everything feels loud. Thoughts, regrets, questions — they all rise to the surface in that half-light. And lately, those hours keep bringing me back to Vic. Not the version of him who was sick. But the version who walked around acting fine even when his body was breaking from the inside. The version who shoulder-carried everything without ever asking for help. Looking back, there were small signs. Moments I thought were nothing at the time — now they feel like distant echoes of a truth he kept hidden. The tiredness in his eyes. The way he moved a little slower. The quiet pauses when he thought no one was looking. I didn’t know how to read them then. I didn’t know they were warnings. I didn’t know they were ...

Some days arrive quietly, without warning, and still manage to open a deep ache in the heart. Today was one of those days — not because something painful happened, but because something beautiful did… and he wasn’t here to witness it. Kenzo had his class assembly this morning. His teachers emailed ahead of time to say he would be receiving a certificate, so I made sure to attend — but I didn’t expect what came next. Kenzo didn’t just receive one award… he received two. The first was Writer of the Month , presented by Dan Bull MLA. The second was a Principal’s Award Merit Certificate — the kind of quiet recognition that would have made his dad so proud. And then, he helped open the assembly. He stood in front of everyone, made a short speech, and sang the Australian anthem with confidence alongside his classmates. It was one of those moments where the whole room seemed to glow around him. And it was impossible not to think about the person who should have been there — the one who ...

Last night, I dreamt of Vic — a dream that carried me back to the time before Kenzo, before everything changed. We were driving together in his black Subaru WRX, heading down Alexander Drive toward our old house in Ballajura. The world felt younger, quieter, untouched by everything that would eventually unfold. As we approached the intersection of Alexander Drive and Marangaroo Drive, we intended to turn right. That was the plan. That was the direction home. But we had edged too far forward. The turn couldn’t be made anymore. I told Vic to swerve left instead and just keep going straight. He didn’t question it. He simply followed my voice. We continued driving down Alexander Drive — further from the turn we meant to take, further from the road that once led us home. That’s when I woke. The time on my phone was 4:29 a.m. That quiet hour where dreams feel closest to truth. Reflections This dream came like a soft echo of an earlier chapter — a reminder of the life we once lived...

This thought keeps circling back to me, no matter how much I try to let it pass: “Don’t plan too far ahead. I might not be here when the year ends.” It’s a quiet sentence that wasn’t spoken, yet it feels like the truth living underneath Vic’s last firm “no” back in March — the one that confused me, frustrated me, made me question his reasons. I didn’t understand it then. Now I can’t stop wondering if he did. People who are ill — deeply, seriously ill — often know more than they say. They don’t always have the words to explain it, and sometimes they don’t want to. They just feel it in their bones, in the way their breath shortens, in the way their body betrays them quietly, little by little. Maybe Vic felt time narrowing long before anyone else did. Maybe he sensed that the future I was trying to plan — the trip, the holiday, the new year — wasn’t one he would enter with us. Maybe saying “no” was his way of preparing me without saying the words out loud. It breaks something inside ...

It’s mid-November, and with December drawing near, I can feel something shift in the air — a quiet heaviness that I can’t quite shake. The world is getting brighter and busier around me — Christmas lights in shop windows, songs playing in the background — but all I can feel is the weight of what’s missing. This will be our first Christmas without Vic. I’ve never been one to make a big deal out of Christmas. But every year, I still found myself wrapping gifts for Vic and Kenzo, marking the season in small, gentle ways. Vic was the one who loved the ritual of it — the tree, the lights, the little details that made a house feel festive. It didn’t matter where he was living or how small the space — the tree always went up. That was just who he was. Now, even thinking about putting up decorations feels impossible. I’ve been slowly cleaning out Vic’s house, trying to make sense of what to keep and what to let go. I bring home the things that meant something — the little reminders of his ...

I dreamt of Vic last night. We were in a house — not one I know in real life, but one that felt safe, familiar, almost like a place between here and somewhere softer. He was already sick, but calm. He walked toward the carport, heading to his car. From behind, I called out to him, “I took your car for a service the other day, but they didn’t have time to wash and vacuum it.” He turned slightly, looked back, and nodded. Quietly. Gently. The way he always did when words weren’t needed. The scene shifted. I was suddenly awake within the dream, walking into the living room. The carport was empty — his car gone. I just stood there, looking out, waiting — or maybe remembering. Then came another scene. I walked up to him and wrapped my arms around him. I asked softly, “If it were possible… could we get back together?” He looked at me tenderly and asked, “Why do you like me so much?” And I answered without thinking, “Because you’re my rock. You’re kind. You were always ther...

It’s been five months since Vic passed, but somehow, my heart is still standing in May. His message reads like a living fragment of him — his tone, his consideration, his quiet worry for Kenzo. It’s almost impossible to comprehend that the same person who typed those words, who said “I hope I will get better,” is now gone. Every time I look at his old messages, it feels like time folds in on itself — as if the screen could open a doorway back to when his words were still finding their way to me, warm and alive. This message — one of his last — still catches my breath every time I read it. He wrote it in early May, apologetic yet thoughtful, asking if I could take over Kenzo’s care because he was too unwell that week. He hoped to get better. He hoped for normalcy to return. He even mentioned attending mediation for grandparenting care, thinking ahead, planning responsibly — as if life would simply keep going. How could someone so present in thought, so careful in his words, suddenly...

There are dates that become etched into the rhythm of memory — not marked on a calendar, but felt in the body. Today is one of those days. It arrives quietly, but with weight, like a shadow settling across the afternoon light. This date last year was the beginning of something I didn’t yet understand, a door we stepped through without knowing what waited on the other side. It was on this date last year that Vic was admitted to the hospital, preparing for his bone marrow transplant. Who could have imagined that just seven months later, he would be gone for good? Sometimes I wonder — was I too naïve, too blinded by hope — to believe that Vic would be okay after the surgery? I’d seen children at my school survive leukemia, recover, and return to life with radiant smiles. I truly thought he would be one of them. Maybe I took his health for granted. Maybe I was too focused on the practical things and not enough on the gentle ones — the kindness, the patience, the words I should have said...

I dreamt of Vic tonight — my third dream of him since his passing. We were away on holiday, staying in a house by the beach. The light was soft, the air still. Kenzo was there too, getting ready to head down to the shore with his dad. I walked into the room and said, almost instinctively, “I asked for copies of your photos with Kenzo — just copies, not to take them all — but your family refused.” Without looking up as he helped Kenzo get ready, he replied quietly, “The photos are in safe hands.” Frustration rose in me. “I know they’re in safe hands, but I just wanted copies. Why are they making it so hard for me? Kenzo needs to remember you now, not when he’s eighteen. By then, he might not remember you as much.” He paused, then said gently, “I know what you wanted to do with the photos. I see the pattern you’re creating. I appreciate it.” And somehow, those words softened everything. The dream shifted. I was walking from the house toward the water. To my right, I ...