Echoes Of Victor

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 n...

Dear Vic, It’s only been two weeks into our four-week holiday in Vietnam, yet I already find myself missing home. Not just the place but the routines. The structure. The predictable rhythm of days that once felt ordinary and now feel strangely comforting. I even miss the endless paperwork - the documents still waiting for my signature, the practical tasks tied to sorting through your house, and the slow, careful act of packing away pieces of a life we once shared. Those tasks ground me. They remind me that what we had was real. When you passed, part of me shut down. A quiet, stubborn part that refuses to move on... even now. It’s been seven months, and letting go still feels impossible. Some days, it feels like moving forward would mean leaving you behind, and I’m not ready for that. At the same time, another part of me keeps going for Kenzo. That part shows up every day.. keeping him active, curious, discovering new places, new people, new moments of joy. I watch him laugh on ride...

Dear Vic, Today, I brought you home - to our family’s ancestral altar, where we honour those who came before us, and those who are no longer here in body, but never absent in spirit. It felt important to place you here. Not as a guest. Not as a memory tucked away. But as family. I wanted you to be part of this space - the quiet centre of our family home in Mỹ Tho, so that whenever Kenzo returns here, he knows you are still with us. That you belong. That you have a place not just in stories, but in ritual, in presence, in continuity. This altar holds generations. Names, faces, lives that shaped who we are - even if Kenzo never met them. And now, you stand among them. A father. A link. A thread that connects past to future. I know our path wasn’t simple. I know there were years when we lived separate lives, when distance (emotional and physical) sat between us. But none of that erases what matters most. You are Kenzo’s father. You are part of his beginning. And you are part o...

Dear Vic, It’s New Year’s Eve tonight. Kenzo and I are in Nha Trang - we arrived yesterday morning. The city is loud and alive, counting down to something new. Fireworks are being prepared, music already spilling into the streets. Everyone seems ready to celebrate. I took Kenzo straight to VinPearl Island for VinWonders, hoping the excitement of the rides, the noise, the colour, the movement, might help him build new memories. Memories that feel light instead of heavy. Moments that don’t carry so much weight behind them. We were here earlier this year, remember? Back when you were recovering at home after your surgery. Even then, when you couldn’t travel, when your body needed rest, you were still there. Still calling. Still checking in. Still asking how Kenzo was going, what rides he liked, what he ate that day. This year feels different in a way I wasn’t prepared for. I tried to cushion the ache for Kenzo as much as I could. I let him spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with your f...

Dear Vic, I dreamed of you last night, my second dream of you in a long time. You were driving me to work, with Kenzo sitting quietly in the back seat. It wasn’t my real workplace, but somewhere unfamiliar, like an in-between place where time doesn’t quite exist. We were talking about small things, the kind of simple, everyday conversations that I miss the most. I asked you to pull over somewhere safe so I could play the K-pop song that Kenzo sang. You took my phone gently, listening as if it meant something. Then you and Kenzo walked down a few steps into a karaoke shop, each holding a microphone, as though preparing for one last duet together. I remember telling you, “Your brother cleaned out all your gaming toys - did you know that?” You nodded. Then I said, “I’m going to clean up your house this weekend.” Again, you nodded. So calm. So quiet. I wanted to stop you before you left, to beg you, “Please don’t go to the hospital again. Please stay.” But the words never cam...