The House That Still Holds Him

We went back to Vic’s house yesterday after the aqua park.

The shift from chlorine and laughter to quiet rooms was abrupt. The house felt still in that familiar way - not abandoned, just paused. Like it was waiting.

I lit an incense stick and stood there longer than I meant to. I spoke to him out loud, even though no one answered. I told him I don’t know if I can keep the house. I’m not sure I can afford it if I take over the loan. The numbers don’t lie. The bank won’t bend for sentiment.

I was crying as I talked, holding the incense, trying to steady my voice so it didn’t break in half. It’s strange how practical decisions can feel like betrayals.

In the background, I heard Kenzo coming down from the bedroom. Slow steps. He sat quietly on the stairs. I didn’t turn around straight away, but I knew he was there. Watching. Listening.

When I finished “talking” to Vic and turned around, I saw Kenzo covering his face with his hands. He looked so sad, the kind of sad that doesn’t make noise.

That part undid me.

I called him over and lit another incense stick for him. I told him gently, “Talk to Dad. Tell him about your day.” He stood there, small and serious, holding the incense carefully like it mattered. Like it was real.

And in that moment, something clicked.

I finally understood why I’ve been so reluctant to clear out the rest of the house.

It’s not just about paperwork or timing or logistics. It’s fear.

I’m afraid that once everything is packed away and cleaned up (once the wardrobes are empty and the shelves are bare) his presence will fade with it. That the air will shift. That the house will stop feeling like it remembers him.

As long as some of his things remain exactly where he left them, it feels like a part of his life is still here. His jacket on the hook. His mug in the cupboard. The quiet indentation of him in the space.

Still breathing in the walls.
Still ours.

Maybe letting go of objects doesn’t mean letting go of him. Maybe love isn’t stored in furniture or clothes or untouched rooms.

But right now, I’m not ready to test that theory.

For now, I’m allowed to move slowly.
To hold on where I need to.
To make decisions when my heart catches up with reality.

Grief doesn’t follow a spreadsheet.
And love doesn’t disappear just because a room is emptied.

We’re still figuring it out - one incense stick, one conversation, one hard truth at a time.