I Swear You Will Be Fine

Dear Josh,

I’ll apologize in advance, I’m going to sound a little dramatic – at least for the first half of this letter. My helper left today. I was really sad about it. Those closest to me would know that I’ve not been shy about expressing my sadness in relation to her departure. We took her to the airport, had dinner with her, and every time she hugged me I could see her tearing up – which made me also want to cry but I had to be strong (my family would have laughed in my face for crying).

Let’s call her “M”. Apart from being phenomenal at her job, M was very sweet, thoughtful, and passionate about taking care of us. I’m embarrassed to admit this, but I don’t even know where some of the household items go because she’s always there to restock my supplies or manage whatever we need. I have another selfish reason for being sad about her leaving – she’s met you. In 2024 when you first came over to meet my parents, she was there. When you stood outside my house and brought me flowers for my birthday, she was there. Her leaving makes me feel like I’m losing someone who knew you. Not that you both engaged in conversations more than a “please” and “thank you”, but she’s seen you in the flesh – not just in the pictures around my room. My new helper has not met you, and won’t get to meet you. She doesn’t know the cars I get into that belong to your family. To my new helper, you’re just the boy on my desk beside a candle and flowers. It might be silly, but it feels worse knowing that my new helper, or future helpers, won’t get to know you.

By the time we were home after dropping her off at the airport (and after some irrelevant delays), it was close to 11pm… and I was hungry. I wanted to have noodles that M would have cooked for me, but was reminded that M isn’t here anymore. I feel like a child with separation anxiety. My new helper was already asleep (also something M wouldn’t do) so I’ll be going to bed hungry and sad. Okay, I shan’t be that dramatic, I could have cooked my own noodles but I’m just missing M. Whilst I opened the fridge to find a snack (spoiler alert: I did not find one), I told myself, “I can just pretend M is on holiday and will be back soon.” That thought made me feel instantly better, but I also had to hit myself with reality – she’s not coming back.

That made me think of you. Your room is untouched. Your clothes are hanging in your cupboard. No one dares to move your game consoles. No one wants to borrow your charging cables. We struggle with the printer and whisper “come and help me, Josh”. We live as if you’re coming back. As if one day you’ll walk into the house and say, “Thanks guys! Glad you didn’t empty the water bottle sitting on my desk, or wash my socks, or use my candle.” It’s saddening at times to see what has become, but honestly, I wouldn’t change anything about the way we’re living.

I know some people feel the need to pack their loved ones’ items away immediately after they’ve departed. I know some feel the need to move, to stay away from where tragedy happened. But honestly, I’d be gutted if I had to walk into your room and not see your vinyl on the wall or the piano in front of the mirror. It might physically hurt me to pack your jackets up, to keep your books in boxes, or to sell your beloved autographs. We might be living as if you’re coming back, but in a way, it helps us keep going – to buy you matching keychains (or hairclips; your sister just bought us one!), to fill your room with handwritten letters, and to splurge on Legos you won’t open. To me, it’s better than living as if you’ve never existed.

I can’t wait to see you again. I love you more, always, and forever.

Love always,
Sha