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...

I dreamt of Vic last night. We were in a house that felt like home - not a house I recognise, not a place from memory, but a space that carried the feeling of belonging. The kind of home that doesn’t need walls or an address to be understood. It was changeover time. He had come to pick Kenzo up. Vic looked tired. Not rushed. Not distressed. Just worn - like someone who had carried more than most, for longer than anyone should have to. Seeing him like that stirred something instinctive in me. I looked at him and asked, simply, “Do you want to stay?” There was no pleading in my voice. No urgency. Just an offering. He met my eyes and nodded quietly. And that was it. That was the whole dream. That nod stays with me. Not as a promise to undo what’s already happened but as something gentler. A moment where love wasn’t about obligation or schedules or separation. Just choice. Just presence. Maybe the dream wasn’t about changing the past. Maybe it was about giving both of us permission ...

I woke up at 4:19am today. No dream of Vic. No message from the other side. Just the table fan still humming quietly in the dark, left on because last night’s heat was unbearable. But the moment I opened my eyes, the weight was already there. December feels different this year. Heavier. Thicker. Like the air itself remembers something I’m still trying to forget. Kenzo’s school sing-along is this Friday. Another December event without Vic. Another moment I have to witness alone, smiling for Kenzo, holding back tears for myself. I keep thinking about the first time Kenzo had a school event at the new school. Vic didn’t make it then either. He had just been discharged from the hospital that very morning. Too weak. Too tired. Too unwell to step outside. He tried so hard to get better… and life never gave him enough time. What breaks me most is this: He worked so hard to buy the house in the catchment, just so Kenzo could have a better future. That was his dream - his gift. But ...

There’s a particular quiet that comes with December, a quiet that isn’t peaceful, but reflective. A quiet that asks you to sit with everything you’ve lived through, and everything you’ve lost. This year, that quiet feels heavier than ever. As the days inch closer to Christmas, I find myself drifting back to Vic without even trying. He appears in memories, in smells, in songs, in the stillness before sunrise… and sometimes in the small, unexpected moments that catch me off guard. I keep replaying those final months, the sharp words said out of frustration, the misunderstandings, the regrets that only became clear once time ran out. I tell myself I didn’t know. I couldn’t have known. But grief has a way of pressing “rewind” on the moments you wish you could undo. And the strangest part is this: I miss even the arguments. Those fiery text exchanges that once felt exhausting… now feel strangely sacred. They meant we were still connected, still engaging, still part of each other’s orbit...

Last night, I had a dream about Vic, one that felt so vivid, so close, it lingered on my skin even after I woke. I saw myself walking down a narrow lane near home. The surroundings didn’t look familiar, yet somehow I knew exactly where I was going. It was as if my feet remembered a path my memory couldn’t name. At the end of the lane, I saw Vic. He was standing outside a house I didn’t recognise, still, steady, as if he had been waiting for me all along. I walked straight into his arms and hugged him tightly. Not just a polite embrace, but the kind of hug that pulls two people completely together, chest to chest, legs touching, the whole world narrowing into one shared breath. He leaned in close, his voice gentle and worn, and whispered into my ear: “I’m really tired. Let’s go home.” Something in me softened, broke, healed, all at once. I held him and began walking back with him, slowly, carefully, like the moment was fragile and I couldn’t risk waking too soon. His weight fe...

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 water...

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 chooses to ...

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 a c...

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...

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. This dream came like a soft echo of an earlier chapter, a reminder of the life we once lived, the roads we ...

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 me to...

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 presence...

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 there fo...

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 va...

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. No...

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 cau...