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...

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 fou...

I came across a line today that stopped me in my tracks: “Tất cả yêu – hận – oán – trách của quá khứ, trong khoảnh khắc anh ngã xuống, đã tan biến hết.” All the love, hate, resentment, and blame of the past — in the moment he fell, they all dissolved completely. It said everything I’ve never been able to put into words. When Vic died, that was exactly what I felt. All the hurt, the anger, the misunderstandings that once weighed so heavily, they suddenly became meaningless. In that moment, none of it mattered anymore. Because all that remained was love, raw, quiet, and infinite. The kind of love that doesn’t need to be justified or explained. The kind that endures, even after everything else has faded away. He will always be the man I once loved and, in many ways, still do, the one who stood by me when no one else did, who shared years of laughter, dreams, and everyday life. My knight in shining armour, maybe a little imperfect, maybe a little dented with time, but mine all...

I re-read one of Vic’s final messages back in May — “This Sunday is my birthday. I’d like to spend the day with Kenzo… Is the timing ok with you?” I replied, “Yes, it’s ok.” And that was it. That was all. Just a few plain words, ordinary, almost forgettable, but now they feel heavy, sacred. I didn’t know then it would be one of his last messages to me. I didn’t know how close the end really was. He just wanted to spend his birthday with his son. That’s what mattered most to him. And now, reading it again, I can almost hear his voice, steady but tired, still trying to make plans, still trying to be a dad. I wish I’d said more. I wish I’d known it was goodbye.

Dear Vic, Today, 17 September , marks 25 years since the day we first met - that outing in 2000 organised by the Vietnamese Students of WA (VisWA). It also marks three months since you left us. Spring has always been the season of our milestones. We met in September 2000. In September 2014, we signed our marriage certificate. In spring 2018, we welcomed Kenzo into our lives. And now here we are in spring 2025 - but this time, without you. My heart aches with the weight of it. Every September, we’d start planning for Kenzo’s birthday. You’d handle the practical things - booking a venue, organising activities - while I’d dive into themes and invitations. You’d always laugh and tell me I was good with ideas 💡. This year, I’m doing both, because you’re not here. In your honour, I’ve chosen a theme: Level 7 Unlocked , inspired by your love of computer gaming. I know you’d love it just as much as Kenzo will. The venue is a little café in the Swan Valley with farm animals, a huge playgro...

Dear Vic, Yesterday was Father’s Day, Kenzo first one without you. And in the days leading up to it, he carried a quiet storm of emotions. At home, he’d often say, “This Father’s Day, I don’t have a father.” I held him close each time and whispered, “It’s Dad’s first Father’s Day in heaven too. I’m sure he misses you so much, but I’m here for you, baby, and I’ll never leave you.” Last week, he joined the Father’s Day card-making activity in class. I wasn’t sure he would, but he surprised me.  On the card, he wrote: “You can stay with us while you’re watching from above, or stay in heaven.” His words broke my heart and touched it all at once, a message only a child’s heart could write, full of longing and love. Kenzo asked to spend the weekend at your house. He didn’t step into your room, or his old one upstairs. Instead, he curled up on the couch, pulling a soft blanket over himself, like he was cocooning in comfort. Later, he played with the marble run - the one you had se...

Grief is supposed to unite, to soften hearts, to remind us of the love we once shared with the one who is gone. But since Victor’s passing, I have found myself not embraced, but rejected. Instead of compassion, I am met with coldness. Instead of understanding, I am met with hostility. I struggle to understand what wrong I have committed that justifies such treatment from Victor’s siblings. My actions since his death have been guided by one purpose alone: to preserve his memories and personal space for our son, Kenzo, so that he may grow up with tangible reminders of his father’s life and love. I have never demanded the return of belongings taken from Victor’s house. I have not sought financial gain, nor have I interfered in inheritance or property. My single and repeated request has been simple and human: access to photographs of Victor and Kenzo together. These are not possessions of wealth, but fragments of memory - irreplaceable keepsakes that belong to our son as much as to anyone ...

 “Love never disappears - it lives on in memory, in breath, and in our child”

They say death brings out the worst in people, and I’m learning how true that can be. Two months after Vic passed away, I was “unfriended” from his Facebook account. In their eyes, my grief isn’t valid because I’m the ex-wife, while they’re “the family.” But what they choose to forget is that I shared twenty years of my life with Vic - through the ups and downs, through raising our son, through everything that made us who we were. All I’ve ever asked for were sentimental keepsakes - photos of Vic and Kenzo together. That’s what mattered to me. Instead, I was met with cruel words: “As his ex-wife, you’re lucky to even get the house and the car.” Those words cut deep because they are simply not true. I didn’t get the house. I didn’t get the car. There’s nothing in Vic’s will that leaves me any of that. What I’ve been left with is not possessions, but the endless paperwork, the responsibility, and the heavy grief of raising our son without his father. Meanwhile, the things that truly matt...

Last night, as I turned off the light and tucked Kenzo in, the room was quiet - just the sound of his soft breathing and the creak of the bedsheets. Then, in the stillness, he whispered, “Mummy, this coming Father’s Day… I don’t have a father.” My heart stopped. I climbed into bed beside him, wrapped my arms around his little body and held him close. I could feel the weight of that truth pressing on both of us - his words so small, but so heavy. I whispered back, “You do have a father, baby. He lives in your heart. That’s where he’s still alive. And he will always be watching over you from heaven.” Kenzo didn’t say anything after that. He just snuggled into my chest, and I could feel his breath slow into sleep. Even in the dark, even in his grief, he lets me in. And I will keep reminding him that love never leaves - it only changes shape. From arms that once held him… …to the invisible string that still does.

Dear Vic, Why does it feel so hard to grieve you freely, without judgment or interference from others - especially your siblings? Thanh, in particular, has made this unbearable at times. He lashed out at me through text and even on social media, accusing me of things that aren’t true. He claimed I already had your house and car, when in reality, none of that belongs to me - they are part of your estate, set aside in trust for Kenzo until he turns 21. The cruelty didn’t stop there. Someone accessed your Facebook account, unfriended and blocked me, and even removed my tags from posts I made of you and Kenzo. Those posts were our memories, Vic. Memories of the life we shared, moments that were supposed to be preserved for Kenzo. And the timing - two months after your death - only deepened the hurt. I’ve had no choice but to reach out for legal advice. This isn’t about clinging to possessions or property. It’s about harassment, defamation, and the interference with your legacy - things tha...

Dear Vic, I don’t know how to carry this ache. I miss you so much, so much that sometimes it feels stronger than anything else in my life. Stronger even than my love for Kenzo, and that terrifies me. Because I know I should love him the most, I know he needs me more than ever… yet my heart keeps reaching for you. There are moments I find myself wishing I could just be with you, wherever you are, even if it means leaving this world. And then I think of Kenzo. Our boy. Your boy. How could I even imagine leaving him behind? What would he do without me, when you’re already gone? It feels like my love for you and my love for him are pulling me in two directions. But maybe they’re not really separate. Maybe my grief for you is so strong because my love for you was so strong. And maybe Kenzo is the thread that ties us still together, the part of you that remains in this world with me. Vic, if you could answer me now, I think you’d tell me to hold on. To keep loving Kenzo for both of us. To le...

Dear Vic, I just re-read our text messages from last October - about planning Kenzo’s birthday, care arrangements, my hospital stay, and your upcoming transplant. It feels like only yesterday we were bickering over little things like that, and now… you’re gone. Those messages hold so much of us - the good days, the bad days, the in-between. Even the smallest updates about Kenzo were written in your voice, carrying pieces of you that I didn’t realize I’d one day cling to. Now, without your replies, without our back-and-forth, even over the most ordinary things, life feels unbearably quiet. I miss you. I miss our conversations. I miss the way your words, whether gentle or sharp, always meant you were still here, still part of my days. And though I know you can’t, I still find myself whispering into the silence: Please… come back to us. Come back to me. — N

It has been two months since Vic passed, yet the grief remains sharp, raw, and unyielding. I cry each day, sometimes quietly, sometimes like a flood, when I think of him, when I look back at photos from this time last year, or when I revisit the words I’ve poured into my journal. One of my greatest regrets is not taking more photos of him earlier this year, during our February outings. I thought we would have more time, that there would always be another moment to capture. But now those few pictures feel like fragile treasures, too few for the weight of what they must hold. Kenzo, though, reminds me that memory is not kept only in photos. He holds his dad in ways that I cannot. He stretches out his hand when he runs, as if Vic is still there, holding it from heaven. He smiles when he remembers the little things - the way his dad ordered chicken feet at yum cha, the way they laughed over simple routines. Through Kenzo’s eyes, I see that grief is not only about absence, but about pres...

There are days I would give anything to turn back time - to undo the choices that led us to separation, to hold onto Vic a little tighter, to fight a little less, to love a little more. I wonder, if I had known what was coming, would I have tried harder to keep us together? Would we still have drifted apart? These questions circle endlessly, like shadows that never quite fade. Now, with him gone, the ache of those years feels sharper. It’s as if every argument echoes louder in the silence, every missed chance weighs heavier in my chest. I think about death sometimes - if I left this world, would I find him again? Would our souls meet where life’s divisions no longer matter? Or is that only wishful thinking, a story I tell myself to soothe the ache of missing him? And then another thought pierces through: would anyone miss me? The answer is both simple and overwhelming. Yes. Kenzo would miss me in ways that words could never measure. He would lose not just a parent, but his anchor, hi...

If Vic had time to write notes - for his will, for mediation, even about me being difficult during changeovers in the past - then why didn’t he leave any notes or letters for me, or for Kenzo, before he passed? I’ve searched through his emails. I’ve turned over the possibility in my mind again and again. But I’ve found nothing. It’s hard not to wonder why. Was it too painful for him to write a goodbye? Did he think he would have more time? Or maybe he believed words weren’t needed - that Kenzo and I would simply know. And yet, the silence hurts. Because legal notes and practical instructions are not the same as a father’s final words to his son, or a man’s last message to someone who shared twenty years of her life with him. Perhaps he thought that everything important had already been said - in the way he showed up for Kenzo, in the small acts of care, in the trips he still tried to take us on even as his health declined. Maybe his message lives in memories, not paper. But tonigh...

It’s been two months since Vic passed away, and today Kenzo joined his Running Club again - the first time since they last did it together, back when Vic was recovering from his first transplant. When I returned to work after Vic’s funeral, I asked if I could keep one of the two Running Club mornings with Kenzo, just for continuity. Thankfully, work agreed. This morning, as we stood on the oval, Kenzo told me that while running he stretched out his left hand - as if his dad were still holding it from heaven. “It made me feel happy” he said. In that moment, I realised he was finding his own way to keep his dad close. Not through words or photographs, but through movement, through memory, through something as simple as an outstretched hand. Step after step, lap after lap, Kenzo has found a way to carry his dad with him. Later, as we walked toward his classroom, he asked if I could create an anime picture of him running with his dad in spirit form - just like the ones I’ve made before. T...

Sometimes I wonder if life had been teaching me all along, in ways I didn’t recognise at the time. Was our separation five years ago meant to prepare me for this moment? A quiet sign, urging me to learn how to stand on my own, to live independently in case something ever happened to him? Back then, I thought the pain of parting ways was unbearable. The silence in the house, the absence of his presence, the way Kenzo’s world split into two homes - it all felt so heavy. And yet, looking back now, I see how I adapted, little by little. I learned to navigate on my own, to carry the weight of responsibility, to build a life for us in a different shape. But even with that hard-earned independence, this grief still cuts so deeply. If I’m mourning him this much now, even though we were no longer together, then how much heavier would it have been if we had still been side by side? Would the loss have broken me completely, or would the love we once shared have somehow carried me through? I’ll ne...

Dear Vic, It’s always around 4 a.m. The house is silent, the air still, and I find myself awake again, mind wide open, heart even wider. I lie there for a moment, trying to will myself back to sleep, but then you drift into my thoughts and I know it’s no use. So I reach for my pen, as if my hands already know what my heart is about to do. I write about us - our beginnings, our storms, our quiet moments, the life we built and the one we lost. It feels almost ritual now, this hour between night and morning, where memory and reality blur. I wonder if you’re here somehow, nudging me awake to keep our story alive. The world is asleep, but in these dark, tender hours, you are the most alive to me. And maybe that’s why I keep waking - because this is when you visit, when the noise of the day can’t drown out your presence. When the sun finally rises, I close my journal and step back into the world without you - carrying the echoes of what we were until the next time 4 a.m. finds me again. ...

The hospital room was quiet, except for the faint hum of machines and the sound of my own breathing - shaky, uneven. It was my second day visiting Vic. I sat beside his bed, fingers wrapped around his hand, my tears spilling freely onto the sheets. He looked at me with eyes that were tired yet still so familiar, and said softly, “I’ve left everything to Kenzo until he turns eighteen.” There was a pause, and then, with a weight I could feel in my bones, “You’re the boss now.” Through my tears, I shook my head and whispered, “No… I don’t want to. I want you to stay.” What did he mean by those words? That I would be the one to make the choices now - for Kenzo, for his life, for everything we’d once carried together? That the weight of both the past and the future was now mine to bear? He didn’t explain, and I didn’t press him. Some truths are too heavy for words, and maybe he knew this was one of them. But that sentence - You’re the boss now - has been living in me ever since. It rises ...