I Found Out My Brother Died at Work in a Full Office

It was July 23, 2014, and I was sitting at my desk in an open office, talking to my colleague when I noticed my sister, distraught, standing behind me. I knew. I knew something terrible had happened.

She said, “Peik is dead.” 

I wailed and demanded “Our brother Peik or our Uncle Peik?”

She kept repeating, “Our brother, our brother.”

Once it sunk in, I moved to “how,” fearing murder or tragic accident, but she just said, “We don’t know. We don’t know. His wife found him.”

I collapsed, my sister with me, and we wailed together on the floor of the open office.

Three incredible and dear colleagues hugged us and helped. When we stopped screaming, they escorted us to a private office. The once vibrant open space full of employees was now empty. That emptiness was a relief—it was just my sister and my three colleagues. I vaguely remember calling my parents to confirm it was real. They told us we had to go to our older sister workplace to tell her.

My colleagues arranged a car.

I remember going to the stage door and security, insisting we had to see our sister in person. Her colleagues, like mine, stepped in to help. We stood outside her dressing room door, knowing her life was about to change like ours had just minutes before. She opened the door and immediately knew that something was terribly wrong.

We said, “Peik is dead,” and all fell to the floor, wailing.

I wish I didn’t remember the rest of that day, but I do.

I remember getting a hold of Peik’s wife. She told me they had just found out they were pregnant—but no one knew yet. We drove to Boston to be with her and our family.

I remember Peik.

His birthday is March 13, and he would have been 53 today, but he died at 42. He was incredible—so incredible that we planned family gatherings around his availability. He was funny, smart, unique, and the brightest energy in every room.

Peik was a Black/Vietnamese man with a limp from polio, which he contracted in Vietnam, where he was born and later adopted. He joined our growing family as the third of six adopted children, along with four biological siblings.

As a child, he was rambunctious and full of energy—qualities he later transformed into a disarmingly charming presence in adulthood. He was married to an incredible woman and was already a father to twin four-year-old boys. He was excited for another child but never got to meet him—his son was born eight months after he passed.

Peik was a gymnastics coach, an Alaskan fisherman, one of JetBlue’s first employees in Oakland, a chef, and, most recently, a college graduate in education and substitute teacher. He was set to begin his first full-time teaching job in September as a sixth-grade history teacher at the grammar school we had all attended. But most importantly to me, he was my brother.

I have five brothers, but Peik and I shared something special—maybe our birthdays being a day apart, or our big, fun-seeking personalities. You’d think with four older brothers, I’d always feel protected, but Peik was the only one who truly looked out for me.

We all have “Peik moments.”

A few of my strongest memories include the time he caught me at a club with my physically abusive high school boyfriend—whom my family thought I had left. Peik walked up, punched him in the face, then put his arm around him and helped us get into the club.

Years later, when I struggled with infertility for four years, his wife became pregnant with twins. He called to share the news and jokingly offered me one. (“I haven’t checked with my wife yet, but I’m sure she’d be okay with it.”) Unbeknownst to him, I was finally pregnant and planning to tell my family the following Mother’s Day weekend. 

I happened to be pregnant a second time when Peik died—I had just told him the week before. Both my pregnancies happen to align with his wife’s, and I am so grateful for the bond we and our children share. I gave birth to my second child, Bella Peik, who I named after him, 7 months after he died and a few weeks before his third son was born. 

My company gave me all the time I needed. They helped design the memorial program, and my boss traveled from New York to Boston for the service. I returned after two weeks, still in a fog for months but appreciative of the care from my colleagues and the distraction. It was strange finding out at work—everyone saw my raw grief. But in some ways, that visibility made my return easier. They knew. They understood.

I was seven weeks pregnant when Peik died and returned to work at nine weeks. It was nice to share my pregnancy news with the company—bringing a new life into the office after they had all witnessed the loss of one. Carrying Bella while grieving Peik was both comforting—I was never alone—and overwhelming. I worried about how my grief affected her.

I was lucky to make it to 38 without losing someone so close to me, so suddenly. It changed me. I became more empathetic to grief, especially in the workplace.

I always ask for the name of a loved one when someone shares a loss because I appreciate when people ask me. I love the exchange that follows, especially since Peik’s name is unique. I can still hear him saying, “Peik, like Birthday Peik.”

I wish I hadn’t had to experience such devastating grief at work to understand others’ pain and the challenges of grieving while working, but I appreciate that it gave me greater insight into how to support and advocate for employees.

As I continue my graduate studies in mental health, I am eager to support employees in managing crises, receiving grief counseling, and navigating a supportive return to work. Most companies offer only three days of bereavement, which is incredibly difficult after such a profound loss—I couldn’t have imagined returning after just three days.

Grief doesn’t fit neatly into policies. It doesn’t have a timeline. But I know now that small gestures—a little extra time, a little extra understanding—can mean everything.