I was walking in the Bluebell woods when the text came.
A friend’s child was tugging at a branch, the birds were loud and bright, and the sun had started to scatter through the trees like gold dust.
And then "Oh shit" That’s what I said. Not elegant. Not poetic. Just real.
I handed my phone to my friend.
She read the message from my mum.
My Uncle had died. Suddenly. No warning.
My favourite was gone.
This is my Uncle, wearing the hat, and my dad.
I'm your favourite, aren't I?
The woods didn’t go quiet, not really. But something in me did, whilst at the same time, everything sharpened. The birds. The trees. The damp earth beneath my trainers. Like the world knew. Like it wanted me to notice this loss. My heart contracted, something rearranged itself inside me.
He was my favourite, and I was his (even if I wasn't).
I used to say that a lot, half teasing, half claiming it like a birthright. The youngest niece. The cheekiest one.
'I’m your favourite, aren’t I?' He’d never confirm or deny, just chuckle in that quiet, knowing way.
Uncle Ken wasn’t loud with his love, but it was always there, solid, dependable. The kind you didn’t have to question and definitely not the kind you had to earn.
As a child, I hated his beard. It scratched when he hugged me.
Now? I love beards. Funny, isn’t it, how things we once resisted become comfort over time.
When my Uncle Tony died, I was only nine. My Aunty left to support 4 children on her own.
My Dad and Uncle Ken stepped in to help, to be the father figure when needed.
And when my Dad died, it was Uncle Ken again.
That’s who he was. The one who shows up. The caretaker. The quiet shoulder.
He gave advice when it was needed.
He listened without judgement.
He held a role in my life that no one else did.
And now, he’s gone.
The In-Between Time
We don’t know why he died. Not yet. There’ll be a post-mortem. A coroner’s report. Words on a page that will try to make sense of something that doesn’t.
And in the meantime, we wait.
I'm not part of planning the funeral and we live all over so there's no gathering properly.
Can’t begin the rituals that help us move, even just a little, through the grief.
I keep telling myself to be patient.
I try to breathe into what I know from a Soul perspective. That he’s in transition, going through a great energetic cleansing. That his Soul is rebirthing into the next chapter of its journey.
And yet, energetically, I can feel his shock.
The suddenness. The surprise.
As if part of him is still blinking in disbelief - Oh… I’ve left my body. I wasn’t expecting that.
And that’s the part that catches me, again and again.
Was it instant? Did he know? Did he feel fear? Pain?
The questions echo.
Because as much as I trust the process of death, as much as I work with it, I’m still his niece.
I still want him to have been held, safe, and peaceful, and I'm sad that it wasn't my place to help him transition.
The guesswork is exhausting.
And it doesn’t quiet the ache.
If I could tell him one thing now?
I’d say I loved being your favourite.
Even if I wasn’t.
Even if you had ten others, and never said it out loud.
It felt like I was, and that feeling was a gift I didn't know I'd had until you were gone.
I’d thank him for the company on the long car journey from John's funeral.
For sitting beside me in easy silence.
For showing up after my Dad died, not to replace him, but to steady me.
His brother was gone, and still, he showed up.
I know I’m just one small part of his story.
I know I’m just one small part of his story.
He had a whole life, family, friends, people who saw him every day.
I wasn’t at the centre of it, but he was a part of the centre of mine and had been since my birth.
And I’ve been struggling with that, with how to grieve someone who meant so much to me,
without feeling like I’m stepping into grief that doesn’t belong to me.
I remind myself, though, that:
Grief isn’t a competition.
There’s no prize for hurting the most.
And no one else’s pain takes away the truth of mine.
I loved him.
I miss him.
And I’ll miss the way he always forgot my birthday.
He held your dreams with you
He was generous with advice, especially the practical kind.
When I showed him the house Iain and I had bought, he loved it.
Told us we could rent the land to horse owners.
Listed off everything they’d need - field layout, water, stable access etc - in that calm, helpful tone of his.
He saw possibilities, not just problems.
He held your dreams with you.
That’s who he was, in my eyes anyway.
If you’ve ever grieved someone who wasn’t “yours” in the official ways, not a parent, not a child, not a spouse, but still, your heart broke when they left, I see you.
You matter.
Your grief matters.
Whether you were the favourite or just felt like it, your love was real.
And your loss is real too.
If this strikes a note of heartache in you, I’d love to hear your story. You’re welcome to share it in the comments or message me privately. No comparisons. No shame. Just the truth of what they meant to you. If you find yourself in need of support, please reach out. I see you, and I'm here to help.
With love always,
Jen x
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