When Pride and Grief Arrive Together

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 fought so hard for Kenzo’s place in this school, who bought the house in the catchment so he could transfer from West Morley, even while battling exhaustion, pain, and endless hospital stays.

He never got to attend a single assembly.
Not one of Kenzo’s big school moments.

I wore his necklace today, hoping in some quiet way that he could still see his son. As Kenzo stood proudly on that stage, it was impossible not to think about how fiercely his dad had loved him, how much he had wanted to witness moments just like this.

After the assembly, I hugged Kenzo and whispered, “Dad would have been so proud of you.”
He wrapped his arms around me and reached for the pendant containing his dad’s ashes, the way he always does. That small, instinctive gesture said what he couldn’t put into words — that he still carries his dad with him everywhere, not just in memory but in the softest part of his heart.

Kenzo is growing into someone kind, thoughtful, and quietly strong — someone who reflects pieces of the man who raised him, even now.

I keep finding myself wishing his dad could have been there.
Wishing Kenzo could have looked over and seen him smiling back.
Wishing these milestones didn’t have to be experienced in his absence.

Grief doesn’t hurt only on the sad days.
Sometimes it hurts even more on the beautiful ones — the days when pride and longing sit side by side, the days when Kenzo becomes someone his dad should have been here to see.

And yet… in small, unexplainable ways, it still feels like he is here.
Quietly.
Gently.
Watching over his boy.
Still guiding us, like an invisible compass we never stop following.

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