It’s that phone call you never want to get and never expect. Mine came on a cold, rainy Thursday—December 6, actually—from my mom. She never calls out of the blue so I knew something was up, but I never imagined what I was I about to be told. “Uncle Vic’s dead,” she said. And I guess she went on to tell how she heard and when and what we knew so far, but I was already crumpling, the first wave of many tears and sobs welling up and taking over. I got off the phone and just sat, half on my office chair, half slumped over on the bed, my face buried in the comforter.

Keana was the first to come in the room, initially wanting to ask for help on her homework, then realizing that something was terribly wrong. I told her what happened and she began to cry too. I wondered how much she understood or if she was responding to me, but it didn’t really matter. A hole had been left in our little universe and it was already sucking pieces of us into it. There was really nothing to do but hold each other and cry. Then I went down the hall and Sarah, with a glance, immediately knew. More hugs. More tears. Maia had questions but is still too young to fully comprehend I think, and Aliya just tried to make sense of it all by asking, “You sad Papa? You sad?” It might have been the first time she had ever seen me cry and one of the only times Keana or Maia had seen their parents so struck with grief.

Uncle Vic was a wild boy. He masked his sensitivity with crass humor and sarcasm. He never failed to embarrass me—and usually himself too—at family gatherings, especially during those sensitive teenage years. Just last year he often cracked jokes about my beard making me look like a terrorist as he would embrace me in a big hug. As a man, he taught me how to have fun, how to dance, and how to not take myself too seriously. He was one of the only men in my life that was consistent, caring, and reliable. For all his faults, he was always there when I needed him. When I graduated from high school, on my wedding day, and every family gathering he made sure I knew he loved me and that “all I had to do was ask.” When Aliya had to be transported to UCSF for the complications during her birth, who were the first two people I saw as I got off the elevator to the NICU after a long drive from Fresno? My brother and Uncle Vic.

It’s been a little over three weeks now since his death and we’re still trying to answer questions. For myself, I’ve mostly stopped, but last night Keana and Maia were asking questions about his death at the dinner table. As with most sensitive subjects, our approach has been to answer their questions directly but simply, only elaborating if more questions are asked. At the funeral Keana surprised us by asking to speak during the open mic portion of the service. She shared how she would miss him and had to cut it a little short when she started crying. I think everything really set in for her during the funeral. Seeing pictures from his life, hearing others share, and probably most importantly, hearing and seeing how his death affected his three girls that he left behind.

I really don’t know how to wrap this post up, but Uncle Vic’s death has certainly left a hole in our lives, and there’s really no way to fill the holes that are left when those we love die. I think we just get used to them as time goes on, but they’re always there, never forgotten.