Dad,
Today would have been your 66th birthday. Last year we had cake and voice notes from all your friends and you said it was the “grandest” birthday you’d ever had.
Did you know it would be your last?
You’ve been gone five months now and though I think of you often, life has moved on without you in it. I work, write, exercise, see friends, puzzle over the Guardian Quick Crossword with my partner. Pole dancing is going beautifully—you wouldn’t believe how graceful I look on that spinning pole that frightened me so. And, guess what, I inherited a Book Club! We even have an Instagram page that I’ve endeavoured to make pretty. Remember how you’d praise me when I made nice designs for my newsletter’s Instagram? Every post I put up, I still think of you.
You’ll be pleased to know, every week, I look forward to speaking with Mum—remember our weekly calls? And I think she’s doing OK. We’re in the thick of what I call death bureaucracy, but life seems lighter for her. Your brother came to pick up your bed last Sunday and now Mum’s electric piano can return to its proper place.
We talk about you sometimes. You could call it respectful gossip. We laugh about how incredibly disorganised you were and how unprepared we are for your death even though we had years. Remember that one time, back when you were still strong, I asked if you’d write a will and you got mad and said I’d get everything anyways? Turns out that doesn’t just happen and we’ve had to figure out with the help of family and friends the whole business of inheritance. Finally, months of back-and-forth and a court date later, Mum has the papers she needs to close down the dozens of bank accounts you had. This is what we were laughing about the other week: how many bank accounts does one person need! I surmised you were trying to diversify risk. Mum just chuckled.
So that’s what we’ve been up to. In February I’ll fly home and we’ll get everything transferred over to Mum and me. And you’ll be proud to hear we’re using this as a learning opportunity. As soon as this wraps up we’ll hire a lawyer to draft Mum’s will. And then mine.
On the work front: I got promoted! (Again!) I’m a people manager now. My assistant joined part-time in September and managing her has been a delight. This is a big step in my career and I’m sad you’re not here to see. But you can be sure I’m reporting every little win to Mum and I think she’s proud for the both of you.
After you died, I thought about getting back to my memoir. But then work got busy and I’m barely managing my weekly newsletters. So we’ll have to see about the book. If I do make time, I wonder if I should shelve Into the Light and write about your final years instead. While it’s still fresh. I hope you won’t mind.
Who am I kidding? You probably will mind. You’ve always been very private. But your daughter is a writer and so I’m afraid you’re just going to have to put up with it.
Happy Birthday Dad.
For your 66th year, I wish you eternal happiness.
Love
ป่าน
25th November 2025
Important Scheduling Announcement
You may (or may not) have noticed my absence this past month. I was first sick, then on a VISA run as part of the months-long process of obtaining a Temporary Residence Certificate for Vietnam (one of the joys of expat life).
Normally, I’d take a few weeks off Val Thinks for Christmas and New Year, but since I’ve already effectively taken a whole month off, I’m going to try something different this year. From today, Val Thinks will drop to an every-other-week holiday schedule that will last until the end of February. I want to make sure I send you my best writing always, and in order to accomplish that with several competing priorities in the new year, I need to lower my frequency. At least for a few months.
This in no way diminishes my appreciation for you. Thank you for reading.
Until Friday 12th December, stay thoughtful, and Happy Thanksgiving to those celebrating!
Gratefully yours,
Val
Death Is Nothing At All (Henry Scott-Holland)
Death is nothing at all.
It does not count.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
Nothing has happened.
Everything remains exactly as it was.
I am I, and you are you,
and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by the old familiar name.
Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.
Put no difference into your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.
Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was.
There is absolute and unbroken continuity.
What is this death but a negligible accident?
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am but waiting for you, for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just round the corner.
All is well.
Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.
One brief moment and all will be as it was before.
How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!
This was beautiful, Val. The first birthday without a loved one can be such a challenging milestone. But writing a letter is such a beautiful way to mark it!
I’m glad you’re allowing yourself a slower cadence over the next few months.