Note: this chapter contains a recollection of character trauma and mention of mental health issues.

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"So, I assume you've been anticipating this session?" Julie asks George, at his next therapy appointment. She takes her seat as usual, before inviting George to sit down. "I hope you haven't fretted too much about it."

"I can't say I've been looking forward to the stuff we're meant to be talking about," George admits, though this statement is more-than-likely apparent without his verbal clarification. "I guess I'll just see where this session takes me."

"We'll just go with the flow. I won't force you to talk about anything you're not quite comfortable with," Julie assures him, as she opens up her file to catch herself up on what's already been discussed between them previously. "So, in our last session, we touched on the fact you've had dark thoughts and a low mood before ... as a result of elements of your life such as your sexuality; and of course, your mother's recent passing. I gave you the information leaflets last time, too. Did you put them to any use?"

"I can't say I've really needed to," George answers, unsure whether to be proud or ashamed of this. "This last week or so has been tough, but I've not quite felt at breaking point."

"Talk me through what's happened this past week," Julie requests, an assertive politeness in her tone. "What's made this week so tough?"

"My husband and I had to go to a trial in court, for a bloke who tried to kill him. Long story short, my husband was held at knifepoint in a hotel by a guy who'd been stalking him in London," George explains. "My husband, he, uh ... he'd been dreading it all this time. It's been a bit of an ordeal, from start to end. But luckily, the guy essentially admitted what he'd done. The jury found him guilty, and he's going to be sentenced at some point in the near future."

"Well, that certainly does sound like an ordeal," Julie comments, taking note of his words. "But, one that worked out for the best in the end, wouldn't you say?"

"It was a weight off our shoulders," George acknowledges. "We were both worried that they'd find him not guilty, or something. But that's not all, I guess. The lass who attacked me at my children's school ... she got arrested too. Hate crime against me. I decided to press charges against her, and she came clean on the spot when the police got her. So you could say, everyone's been breaking the law and we've been getting justice for it."

"Certainly an eventful week for you then, George," Julie laughs. "But it's great that you didn't feel so low these last few days. That's excellent to hear. It's baby steps — I'm sure you've heard that term before."

"I have, yes." George chuckles lightly, nodding his head in light amusement. "I don't expect to be cured from these therapy sessions; not even slightly. I just come here because every man, woman and child demanded I did."

"I can see that it has been helping, even if only a little," Julie retorts. "Which is, of course, what the aim is. But I suppose now we've talked about the last week, we should get down to the nitty-gritty."

"Oh, goodie," George quips. "I'm so excited."

"So." Julie inhales in preparation for her challenging interrogation; but alas, she knows she must have the conversation. After all, it's what she's paid to do. "I know that your sexuality is something that has caused you a great amount of difficulty in the past. And I remember you mentioned in a previous session that you struggled with coming out to those you care about. Would you say you felt ashamed of your sexuality, George?"

"No," George answers immediately. "Of course I don't. I didn't choose to be born gay. Nobody who is gay, or bisexual, or asexual, or anything else chooses to be born with that sexuality. How can one be ashamed of something they were born with? It would be like being ashamed of having brown hair. Or being ashamed of having green eyes. It's a part of you. Was there a time when I couldn't find joy in my sexuality? Of course. Because when you're so isolated — in a world where, you know, there's a chance that nobody will accept you for the way you were born — it's hard to find joy. Especially when there's nobody to share in the joy with. I spent almost a decade, after I realised I was gay, trying to find the happiness I so-desperately craved. I felt like I was hiding in the shadows, not wanting to reveal myself to anybody. It wasn't until I found my Levi, that I finally started to feel the joy in my sexuality."

"I see." Julie nods in understanding, finding George's words strangely insightful. "So you'd say you're proud to be a gay man, then?"

"Absolutely." George beams with pride just at the thought. "It's been a long road. But never once did I falter in how proud I am for who I am. Even when I started coming out to people, I'd tell them "I'm a gay man and I'm proud of it". I felt especially proud once I learnt of my uncle's story."

"Your uncle's story?"

"Yes. My mother told me the story of my Uncle Colin when I came out to my parents back in nineteen-eighty-seven. It's quite a tragic story, actually," George elaborates. "My mother had a brother — Colin. He took his own life on the precise day I was born. June twenty-fifth, nineteen-sixty-three. He was a gay man, too. But he was living in a completely different time to the time I lived in. The decades before my time were entirely different. The world was far less accepting of homosexuality back then. I thought it was difficult in the eighties — the sixties was way worse. And you see, Julie ... he was the complete opposite of myself. He wasn't proud of his sexuality; and he found absolutely no joy in it whatsoever. He couldn't be himself to the world; and that, to him, was more than enough reason to give up. So on the day I was born, he did it. He ended it all. He gave up. Can you imagine the bittersweetness my mother felt on that day? Holding her newborn son in her arms, while simultaneously discovering her beloved brother had died?"

"That is a truly heartbreaking story," Julie frowns. "I'm so sorry you never got to meet him. Can you imagine if he was here to see how the world has changed now?"

"I think about it all the time," George confesses. "And I wish he'd have stuck it out long enough to see how things have improved. But things aren't perfect yet. Far from it."

"There will always be closed-minded individuals who fail to recognise what love truly is," Julie reminds him. "But, as somebody who is not part of the community, I can only advise that you focus on the pride you feel for who you are. You focus on the loving family you've built up for yourself. Of course, there's information out there on support for members of the LGBT community who may be struggling. I can provide that for you. I know I seem to give you new leaflets and contact details every session — but unfortunately, I can't say I'm qualified in absolutely every single category known to man. It would be useful, though."

"Wouldn't it just?" George snickers; he doesn't want to admit it, but the conversation regarding his mother and his uncle has saddened him just a little.

"I'm assuming that your uncle and your mother are very sensitive topics to discuss." Julie captures George's amber irises with her own, forcing him to maintain eye contact with her.

"Um." George hesitates, not feeling ready to go over the subject that she's trying to divert the conversation to. "You could say that."

"Why don't you talk to me a little bit about your mother?" Julie invites. "I'd love to know more about her."

"Well." George heaves a sigh, figuring that simply talking about his mother's life, as opposed to her death, may not be quite as much of a mental strain on him. "My mother was beautiful. So wonderful and caring. She was English, whereas my dad is Greek-Cypriot. They met way-back-when, and fell in love and got married. My sisters were born first. Then it was me. I'm the youngest sibling of the three of us. My mother gave us the best childhood she possibly could. Of course, my father did too. But my mother and I were very close. She was my best friend in the world — well, aside from my actual best friend, Andrew. She used to take us to places on the weekends; fun places like the roller discos on a Saturday night. When I was a teenager — before she knew I was gay — she used to ask me when I'd bring a girl home. Then, in the next breath, she'd say I was too young to date. She never really made sense with that." George laughs a little, at the memory of such a special woman. "I guess in her eyes, I was always her precious baby boy. She had two daughters, and she'd lost her brother. I was the only boy she had in her life. She doted on me. And I doted on her. Usually she'd be the one giving me advice — but we had that kind of bond where I could also give her advice. It was silly. It was playful. It was fun. It was deep. I loved her more than anybody in the world. Of course, aside from Levi and my kids. But she just had this presence about her. I know it's really cliché to say it, but she would genuinely light up a room when she walked in it. She was so animated and so lively and so bubbly and chatty. My father was incredibly lucky to have her. She could have had any man she wanted. She was stunning. Simply stunning. And I was so lucky to call her my mother." His eyes glaze over with a thin layer of tears, but he makes every attempt to blink them back as he talks. "And she was so supportive of me when I came out to her and my father. She told me the story of my Uncle Colin; and then she made me promise that I'd live out my life to the fullest. She made me promise I'd always be proud of who I am. That I'd always find joy in it. But now ... now that promise almost seems meaningless."

"How so, George? How does it feel like that promise was meaningless?" Julie presses, her voice lowered as not to distract him from the mental rabbit hole he's gradually falling down.

"Because it's my fault she died." George lets out a small sniffle as he speaks, almost terrified of divulging anymore information.

"What makes you say that?"

"If we'd have just been born differently," George states, furrowing his brows sadly. "It wouldn't have happened. She'd still be here today."

"Explain to me, George."

"Us being gay is the reason she died," George explains. "My Uncle Colin and I. If we had been born straight, none of this would have happened. If it was a hate crime, why the fuck didn't they direct it at me? Why her?"

"O-Okay," Julie stammers. "I think we're getting somewhere, now. Can you explain to me what happened to your mother?"

"She didn't deserve it!" George cries out. "She was just taking a nice afternoon stroll in London. She was on Southwark Bridge, minding her own fucking business! And they knew who she was! They knew! They knew she was the woman with the gay son and the dead gay brother. How fucking sick and twisted do you have to be? She did nothing wrong! It was me! I was born this way! Why is it that I spent my entire life teaching myself to be proud of who I am — just for somebody else's opposing views to override all of that, and be the reason my mother is dead?" George's hands reach up to his face; his fingers claw at his temples in desperation for some kind of answer to his pleas. "Why would they go after her instead of me? Why wouldn't they target me? Why her? Why her? Why couldn't they have gotten me instead? I would take her place in a heartbeat, because she never deserved to be murdered because of her brother and her son! It just doesn't make sense—to—me!"

"Okay, George ... I can see you're getting worked up. Take a deep breath in, and hold it for five seconds," Julie instructs; she counts up to five for him, observing him as he tries to follow her words. "Now let it all out, slowly. Okay? We're going to get to the bottom of this together, alright?"

"There's nothing to get to the bottom of," George corrects her, his voice slightly hoarse from the emotional outburst. "The damage is already done. I did this to her. All because of the way I was born. They must have waited decades to do this to her. But why her? Why not me? Why didn't anybody help her in time?"

"All these questions are entirely valid," Julie expresses. "But unfortunately, unless the one who did this to her is questioned intently ... they're difficult questions to answer."

"D'you know, Julie? When she was gone, I was the only one who was in her room to say goodbye?" George asks rhetorically. "I thought it would give me some kind of peace, but instead I just remember her in that state. My sisters and my dad couldn't bear to see her laying there, lifeless. But I suppose they had no obligation to. They weren't the ones who killed her."

"And neither were you," Julie points out. "From what you've described, it was a hate crime committed by somebody old enough to know far better. They held a pointless, imaginary grudge all this time about somebody else's sexuality — without saying a word to you ... and they decided to strike. But the chances are, they may have had some other baseless grudge against your mother that you aren't aware of."

"It doesn't matter, does it?" George spits. "They did it in one of the most public places you could imagine. It's almost as if they didn't even think about it. They were arrested not long after it happened, because of CCTV footage on the bridge. They just haven't been sentenced yet. But I'm not even going to turn up to the sentencing when it does happen. I'm not giving them the satisfaction of seeing how much pain they caused."

"But how do you know it was based off of your sexuality?" Julie asks. "Have you missed part of the event out?"

"They were shouting homophobic slurs at her about my uncle and I, before they attacked her," George answers. "She just about managed to tell me before she died in hospital. She said she knew their face. And she said she made sure to defend me and Colin as best as she could before they struck. But I'll never know about a lot of the other holes in the story."

"I can see why this would be so traumatic to you, George," Julie comforts him. "And I think it would be wise to refer you to somebody who is qualified in bereavement counselling. You can still see me; this would be sessions that run alongside my sessions with you. Bereavement counselling will help you work through your grief; help you find ways to cope better with the loss."

"How do I go about that?" George questions.

"You don't have to worry. As long as you give me the go-ahead, I can get you referred to them," Julie explains. "With your consent, I can pass them a copy of the notes and records from these sessions we've been having. It would save you from having to talk over all this again."

"That's ... fine," George replies. "Whatever it takes, I guess."

"No problems at all, George." She closes up her file, slotting it away among her countless other files on her desk. "I'll get that sorted for you. For now, I have some other numbers for you to contact if you need it. They're specifically for those in the LGBT community, to give support if you're struggling. Like I said before — it's for the times when you're not in therapy with myself or your bereavement counsellor." She finds the slip of paper containing all the contact details, before handing it to him. "That's for you. I'm sorry if this session has seemed overwhelming. But I suppose that's why we're here — to address all these struggles."

"As long as it helps me in the long run, I suppose," George comments back monotonously, feeling drained from everything that's been spoken about. "But thank you again, as usual. I'll see you next week."

"Yes, you will. I'll keep you updated about your referral via phone call," Julie tells him. "See you next week, George."

He musters a faint smile as he heads out the office door, letting it drop as soon as he hears the quiet slam behind him. With no energy remaining, he slumps his back against the wall, and lets his mind run freely over the topics that were discussed during the session.

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Chapter thirty! Bit of a lengthy one, but you finally know what happened to his poor mother! Hope you enjoyed. xx