Last Thursday was a long, emotional day of travel. We flew overnight from ATL to LHR on one of the busiest travel days of the year, navigating the chaos of the world’s busiest airport. Every step through the terminal carried memories I wasn’t prepared for.
It was the same airport where I first picked Matt up that fateful summer—the summer that gave me a child I once thought I would never have and a love I will likely never feel again.
I carried his ashes with me the entire way, cradled carefully in a small box. I couldn’t put it on the floor; it didn’t feel right. I know it’s not truly him, just what remains of him here on earth, but the emotional weight felt almost unbearable. Each time I had to explain the contents to someone, it felt like a part of me was dying all over again. TSA even flagged the box for testing, and while Matt would have laughed at the absurdity, it only sent me and my daughter into panic. We recovered, but the tears were far from over.
Grief has a way of sneaking up when you least expect it. A simple gesture—a quick reach for the center armrest from Quinn—brought back a flood of memories. Matt did that exact thing every time. Driving from London to Oxford, where Matt was born and raised, I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. Every place he had once told me about was right in front of me, yet he wasn’t there. He had so many dreams of places he wanted to show us, especially taking Quinn to Wales, one of his favorite corners of the world. We will go, in his honor, but it will never feel the same.
I see him everywhere. On the Tube, a man across from us had eyes so like Matt’s it nearly took my breath away. From behind, I sometimes glimpse someone whose posture and gait mirror his, and my heart almost stops.
Before we even boarded our flight in Atlanta, I returned to the very spot in the terminal where he first arrived in 2012. I remember every detail of that day—the way he looked, the clothes he wore, the faint but perfect scent that clung to him after a long flight, and the way his hugs made the rest of the world disappear. I laid the box gently on the tile we once stood on together, and in that moment, the emptiness was almost too much to bear. He will never hold me again. He will never tell Quinn how much he loved us in person again.
That thought terrifies me. I worry that all Quinn will have are the stories of Matt and his love. I want her to see it reflected in the world, so she never settles for less than she deserves. I hope she remembers a fraction of the joy before cancer tried to steal it all.
Bringing him home for Christmas was a promise I made when he was dying. I would have promised him anything to ease his suffering, but this was sacred: “Take me home to my mum and dad.” It was something I had to honor.
On the flight, I refused to put him down. I talked to the box constantly, recounting memories, whispering love, and clinging to the invisible thread that still connects us. The captain even came by to offer condolences and assure me that he would get Matt home safely. I couldn’t form words—just nodded, tears streaming.
Over the next two weeks, we will visit all of his favorite places, do all of his favorite things. He isn’t physically with us, but I will look for him in the laughter of strangers, in the familiar eyes of men on the train, and most of all, in Quinn as she plays with his 30+ year-old train set or does the little things he loved.
Life continues without him, but we cannot forget him. There is a hole this Christmas, a raw, gut-wrenching emptiness that no tradition or celebration can fill. Still, we carry him with us in every laugh, every memory, every quiet moment.
“I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams.”
