My head and I were not on good terms the following morning.

It was Saturday morning(ish) and I didn’t have to pick Ada up until two pm from the zoo, where her friend’s parents were taking them.

I groaned as I made myself some coffee. Everything was so bright and noisy. Even the fucking birds outside my window. I scowled at them like it was their fault I’d drunk a whole bottle of wine.

God. A whole bottle. Drunk Michael makes bad decisions.

I collapsed in front of my laptop with the coffee and some aspirin, downing them before opening its face.

An email was waiting for me.

Before I read it, I went over the history. I groaned some more, and hid my face in my hands. What the actual fuck, drunk Michael?

It wasn’t that I didn’t remember anything. I recalled doing it, though rereading the details of what I actually said, I felt a simmering regret. I didn’t like getting mixed up with clients. I was too soft. I always took their shit personally and it screwed me over. That was the whole point of being anonymous.

The new email read:

Oprah D,

Just checking you’re not suffering from alcohol poisoning. I bet you have a trophy headache though.

Again, thanks for the chat last night.

Hope you’re ok

BW07

See? This is why I couldn’t get involved. Then people thought we were friends and wanted to chat…

But at the same time, it was sweet. They didn’t have to check up on me. Or say thanks. Twice.

After thinking for a few minutes, I constructed a very carefully worded reply.

Dear BlackWhite07,

So….I just reread last night’s mails.

Let me start by saying that I was a lot drunker than I realised. Um, sorry about that?

Secondly, I am glad I could make you laugh after such a difficult experience.

Thirdly, and I have to say most importantly, I have to sort of stop our interaction here. I know that last night was kind of fun, but I have a policy about not getting involved with clients. It can cause a lot of unnecessary harm for both parties. I’m not a professional therapist, but the same theory applies. I am really sorry if this comes off as harsh or insulting, but I’m speaking from experience.

Sorry again.

Regards

Oprah D

I bit my nails a bit before going to brush my teeth and get the fuzz off my tongue. Feeling double-shitty now for being so careless. When a ping sounded from my laptop ten minutes later, I started guiltily.

When I opened it, it just said.

Oprah D

No problem. Thanks.

Blackwhite07

“Ah shit.” I sighed, before deleting the entire thread. Reminder to self. Do not answer email when wine is telling you its totally fine.

Another note to self; wine is the devil.

-8-

Months later

 Ada was sitting in the living room while I caught up on vacation paperwork. Most parents come down hard on their kids watching TV. I’m not like them. If she wants to watch it, I let her. She plays loads of outdoor sports and brings home good grades. Clearly, television isn’t melting her brain.

Maybe her actual parents would have done it differently, but you do what you can with what you got.

Eventually she comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my neck. She’s just high enough to do it if she stands on her toes when I’m sitting down.

“Mikey, I’m bored.” She tells me.

“The tragedy.” I intone, but I bring my hand up to squeeze her arm. Most of her friends have gone away for the short vacation and she misses them.

She huffs in my ear. “Mikeeeeeeey.”

I roll my eyes but I’m smiling. “Ok, I have to work though. But if you give me until three, we can go to the park and bike around a bit.”

“And scare the ducks?” she adds, delightedly.

I bring her around so I can look at her. “What do you have against water fowl?”

She shrugs, all angular bone and gorgeous chocolate brown curls. “They make funny sounds when I throw bread at them.”

I snicker, because it’s true. “We can bring bread, but at least wait until no-ones around before you try to hit them.”

She sighs dramatically. “Fine.”

“You’re a weird kid.” I tell her, fluffing her hair out a bit. Those curls gave me hell in the early years, now I’ve got it down pat. Most days.

“You’re a weird dad.” She retorts before going to her room.

Well, I guess that’s true. I don’t socialise enough to know otherwise. I don’t really see other parents outside of compulsory school events and mandatory birthday parties. Not hugely chatty.

Being the Single Gay Dad it a bit like being a celebrity. Everyone loves you in a kind of hero worship way; oh what a beautiful kind soul I am for taking in my orphaned godchild, and alone! And gay! Why, I’m a poster-child for white middle-class martyrdom. But no one really tries to dig much deeper than that. The few friends I do have aren’t from those circles.

While I have the tabs open, I hear a ‘bloop’ sound which indicates a chat hail. I’m confused, because I don’t have my chat open, but then I look at one of the tabs flashing, and realise it’s my Oprah inbox. The program I use has a built in chat function. Curious, but not unheard of.

I click open and my stomach drops a little. Its blackwhite07.

Bw07: hi. Are you there? I’m sorry, I know you don’t do this at all, but I really need to talk to someone.

I bit my lip. This is really not what I do. It’s not that I don’t do chat with clients, but it’s extremely rare. I don’t like being part of people's drama if I don’t actually have an emotional investment in them. That means friends. It’s about keeping my distance.

But it’s kind of my fault. If I had kept it professional in the first place, he wouldn’t be thinking he could do this now.

BW07: my father died. I have no one else I can talk to.

BW07: this is literally desperation talking here.

I fold my hands under my armpits, staring at the ceiling. This is drama, like a black hole, beckoning me closer. Already, my knee jerk reaction to console and comfort is itching to take over.

I watched the little icon that indicates typing is happening for a while. Then;

BW07: nevermind. Sorry I asked. Not being sarcastic, I know this isn’t your problem. Sorry.

Oh my lord, I can practically hear him crying tears onto his keyboard.

Hating myself for being weak, I click in the reply box.

O; hey. Its ok, I’m here. I can’t chat now though, how about later?

Immediately I get a reply

BW07; yes please. Are you sure it’s ok?

I sigh, since it’s not actually, but I’ve said so and it’s my own funeral from here on in.

O: Yes it’s alright. I’ll be on again around 7:30pm. That ok?

BW07: yeah that’s perfect. I’ll see you then. And thank you.

I tilt my head back and stare at the ceiling.

“Ada? Come on, we're going biking.” I yell.

She peeks her head around the door of her room, looking excited.

“But it’s only two-thirty?” she inquires.

“You’re a lucky girl today. I need to get out of this house.” I say, getting up and going to the closet where I keep our helmets.

“Amen to that!” she says. A little expression she’s picked up from me. I think it’s cute, other people give her side-eye. I guess it does sound weird coming from a five-year-old kid, but I happen to think it sounds bloody magical.

So we went out for the afternoon. The parks are pretty crowded with other families, since its holidays, but there’s one we go to in particular that has a great track for the cyclists and of course, a duck pond. We stop there, with a bag of bread, but the ducks seem wise to Ada now because instead of coming closer for the food, they all skid away to the other end of the pond.

I chuckle from the bench, watching her disgruntled expression.

“What did you expect? You abuse them and now they don’t like you.” I tell her.

She sighs and comes to sit next to me with the bread. I fluff her hair.

“Maybe if you just throw the bread right here on the grass they’ll come back.” I say.

“I didn’t mean to make them hate me.” she tells me.

I tilt my head. “Well honey, if you want them to like you, throwing food at them isn’t the way to go about it. Besides, they’re ducks, I don’t think they hate anyone. Try my suggestion. Their stomach will overrule their brains.”

So she does, and as predicted, the ducks come back. Food is food after all.

I squeeze her shoulder as we both let the ducks fluff around our feet and fight over the larger slices. “Maybe, no more throwing bread, kay?”

She shakes her head, and her curls bounce and sway around her round face. She is the prettiest thing, I swear. “Nah, I’m done with that. This is better.”

About time, I think to myself. Parenting is hard. You want them to be their own person, but you also don’t want them to become little psychopaths. It’s a balancing act. I’m pretty sure not many parents would have been ok with her abusing the ducks, but I wanted her to get here on her own.

The rest of the afternoon is lazy. We get ice cream and go see the flower exhibition on the east side of the park. She’s tired after a couple of hours and wants to head home, and by the time we get there I’ve almost completely forgotten about meeting up with blackwhite07.

But after Ada is bathed and tucked away, and I’m gazing lazily at my laptop screen and catching up on comics, I hear a ‘bloop’ and I remember.

I start guiltily. Right, his dad died today. Not sure exactly how bad that is, but it must mean something if he reached out to me in the first place. I click open a chat window.

BW07: you there?

O: here. so, wanna tell me about your day?

BW07: my dad died.

I pause a little before typing back. It’s a loaded sentence.

O: how are you doing?

BW07: I don’t know tbh. We weren’t close, but it was sudden.

O: wanna tell me what happened?

Usually people don’t need a much of a trigger to spill everything. Sometimes, all people need is to know someone is listening and willing. He still seems hesitant though.

BW07: look I do actually. But I know this is against your policy. I’m sorry for pushing it.

I smile a little. At least he gets it. It makes me feel easier about the whole thing.

O: I wouldn’t have said yes if I wasn’t ok with it, no matter how sad you were :) honestly. I don’t waste time being nice.

BW07: yeah, I got that. You’re really honest. I guess that’s why I wanted to talk to you. You’re more genuine than most people I know.

I get this a lot. But it’s easier to be genuine over anonymous text.

O: all good. So, you doing ok?

BW07: yeah. No. I don’t know. Like I said, we weren’t close, but he was my dad. I only had the one.

O: most people do. What happened?

BW07: he had a heart attack. It was completely out of nowhere. He didn’t have a history or anything. Or maybe he did and he never told me. I don’t know.

O: that’s quite rough. But I’ve heard it can happen.

BW07: yeah, I’ve been researching. My mom is shattered. She keeps calling me to tell me what happened over and over, like she’s forgotten telling me the first time. And then my agents keep asking me what I’m supposed to tell the press.

Oh right, he’s famous. I'd actually forgotten.

O: what are you supposed to tell them? How is it their business?

BW07: apparently it is. The public always want to know the latest celebrity gossip. They knew before I did, can you believe that? I had to find out from my agent. Then my mom called after that.

I frown.

O: that’s kind of fucking horrible.

BW07: ha! Yeah it kind of is.

A pause in the conversation.

BW07: I don’t know what to do.

This is the part where people need me. A rudder in their sea of sadness. I think for a moment then reply.

O: well firstly, I think all you need to say to the press is this: you are in mourning and you deserve your privacy for that. They can wait a fucking week at least, and so can your agents surely.

O: secondly, I’m assuming you’re far from home. Maybe you should go back and be with your mom? Can you do that?

Bw07: like, physically or emotionally?

O: both.

….

BW07: I guess I should.

BW07: everything feels sort of weird you know? Like my dad’s not actually dead, except he is

BW07: and I don’t feel sad enough about it

O: and you feel guilty about that.

BW07: yeah.

O: look I don’t know you and your dad’s history, but I know death is the weird fucking thing that leaves most people feeling like you are now. How can the living comprehend death? It’s not possible. We can only understand things within the realm of our own experiences.

bW07: that’s…I don’t know how to process that, right now.

O: it’s ok. The point is; there’s no script on how to feel about death. Your dad is dead, and you get to feel whatever you want about it. Sadness, happiness, or nothing. It’s yours to feel. Characteristic to you. And also, you only just found out so give yourself some time.

BW07: ok, that actually does make sense.

O: im wise, what can I say.

BW07: lol. And so modest.

O: I try. No I don’t.

BW07: you actually made me smile. Well done.

O: don’t smile a lot?

BW07: not today. It’s a bit of shit day.

O: I really am sorry. I’m not just saying that.

BW07: I believe you. I mean, I’m hearing it from everyone today, like a hundred times, but at least when you say it, I don’t feel like you’re reading it off a cue card.

I smile at that. It’s nice to be appreciated.

We chat some more. He’s wavering between being broken and being confused, but the chatting is easy and seems to help him at least. He’s a good guy. And at least in this, I can sort of help from experience. I remember what it was like when Roanne died. I remember the hollow kind of numbness when I got the news.

Of course, I couldn’t stay that way. I had a baby screaming and my best friend’s last dying wish for me to be the parent she wouldn’t be able to be.

We chat late into the night, eventually talking about nothing really important. I really don’t usually let things go on this long, but it’s just…kind of fun, you know? We chat like we’ve done it loads of times. And I make him laugh, which makes me feel good.