I think there's a time in mourning when everything gets too much for a person, there's a night where it's so cold, and you wish that you had something to help you through it, there's a time where your body becomes immune to the sleeping pills, and there's nothing to help keep your eyes shut. That happened in November, I could not sleep, no amount of sleeping pills could knock me out, and no amount of crying could possibly tire me out. I remember going to fetch my computer, and I just wrote. I opened a new document and the words kept flowing and flowing and flowing, it was almost magical, the melodic bang of my fingers on the keys, and the appearing of the black letters on my white screen. I lost a whole year of my life though, it was almost as if I just looked down, and when I looked back up it was November again, and I had finished a book. Bad thing is though, that I literally forgot to go to my mother's wedding, missed a Christmas dinner with the whole family, and practically forgot about everything that didn't concern my writing, it was a little futile to my kids, and the rest of the family, but it was worth it when my publisher called me up at six in the morning telling me that 'Confessions of a Single Father' had hit the New York Times Best Seller list. Call me a bad father, or a bloke trying to leave a mark on the world, whichever floats your boat. (I'm probably a good mixture between both, as you'll notice.) Anyway, I realized I wasn't as good of a dad as I put out to be when I (and in my defence I was busy with a Skype conference with my publisher, so technically it was for a good reason. But, really? What's more important, selling a book, or picking your kid up from choir practice?) forgot Jude at choir practice in the middle of winter for half and hour. I felt absolutely terrible when I finally realised, well shit, I left my kid at choir practice, and dashed toward the car. Yes, here it comes; I'm a bad father. Harry how the bloody hell could you forget your kid at choir in the middle of the winter??? tHIS mAN iS nOT cERTIFIED tO bE a fATHER i iNSIST oN tAKING oVER! (Please, keep your knickers on, dear reader. We all have our parenting methods, mine may not have been completely exemplary, but it worked, so again, keep your knickers on!) Jude was sitting on the inside of the office building, with his music in hand, probably crying and yes bloody shun me, I felt terrible. He saw me, and I hoped his face would light up with happiness to see me, but really, he barely acknowledged my presence. He got up, and said, "you're late."

"I know." I said softly, taking his hand in mine.

"Finally decided to acknowledge you have a child?" He replied sardonically.

"Jude." I replied, sighing, "don't say that."

"What? I'm telling the truth, you think you can just ignore me for a year and then have me forget it two minutes after, and might I add you forgot me at choir practice, I mean come on, dad! Who does that? It's stupid." He said, breaking free from my grip and leaving me just a bit confused in the snow.

"Jude Winston Holt, I demand you rephrase." I said sternly.

"Rephrase what? The truth, sorry father, not only did you forget me, but you're a hypocrite as well? Good show, really." He got in the backseat.

"Jude, stop. I didn't forget you." I said, sighing and getting inside.

"Ah, denial. Not a good look on you." He rolled his eyes.

"Did you just roll your eyes at me?" Taken aback, my eyes widened.

He did it again, "at a three hundred and sixty degree angle, yes father. I did." He replied.

"Jude, stop." I said.

"Fine." He replied, shrugging.

"I didn't forget you, by the way. And it's not denial, Jude; I had business to tend to. And yes, before you tell me how you're supposed to be the most important thing in my life, it slipped my mind. Blame your choir practice for being so late, and just a side note, let's have this conversation again when you're thirty four and a single father with no assistance or advice from anyone, Jude, I'm winging it, all right? Bare with me if I screw up." I said, and that shut him up for the whole ride back.

"Sorry." He said when we arrived back home, "I'm just- I don't get it. I'm eight, dad, I'm a kid, I don't get business, nor do I get parenting. And I know you love me, us, it's just I was scared you forgot me, because when I didn't see the mum-van in the parking lot, I panicked. And to be honest, I was pretty happy when I saw you coming up to me, I was. I don't know why I said all those things." He was looking down as he got out of the car, and I knelt down before him, to look him in the eye. Poor little guy was now crying.

"I get it, Jude, you were scared. We act differently when we're scared, and you're growing up, you make a load of mistakes but you learn from them." I smiled, wiping a hot tear flowing down his little cheek.

"Are you mad at me?" He asked innocently.

"No, I'm not mad at you, I'm just – what's the word? – stressed, I suppose. I'm trying to raise you and your sister whilst trying to become successful." I laughed softly, as did he, "c'mon, Maestro. If you get inside right now, I promise to make hot chocolate, and your favourite for dinner." I said, and he nodded.

"Deal." All in all, no one's parenting technique is better than the person standing next to you. We all have flaws in how we raise our children; we raise our children the way we were raised. If you were raised by a loving single parent, you'd become one. If you had the perfect family life, so would your child. But nonetheless, the reason we can't say that one's parenting technique is perfect is because the human race itself is not perfect. We all make mistakes, screw up, fall down, but we get up and keep going. Nobody's parenting is perfect, and mine is certainly not, and neither is yours, or your mother's, or your mother's mother. No two person's will be exactly the same, like Insley and I for that matter, we're identical twins, but completely, fundamentally different. I raise my kids in a way, and he'll raise his in his own way. And that's what makes us unique, that's what makes the whole human race unique. The fact that not even two people made from the same chromosomes, grown in the same womb, and born at the same time, can be precisely, physically symmetrical, but completely different in ways of thinking.

Along with being a father, and now a successful author, I was still a practicing psychiatrist, though a bit different from last time. I was now what I called a personal psychiatrist. A year ago, Insley helped me develop a cell phone application, where patients could press a help button, with a level of urgency, and I would contact them immediately. If the level of urgency was high enough, the app would give out a location and I would go there to meet the patient and tend to his or her needs. It was a controversial thing I was doing, getting personally involved with a patient, but I liked it that way. I knew that trust had to be earned, especially from scarred people like these, and I was doing everything in my power to earn it. I had a specific patient, which was a bit different from the rest. His name was Jeffrey and he was a homosexual who'd been shunned out of his country, and was seeking mental help to medicate his 'gay' away. I told him there was nothing I could do to get the 'gay' away, because being gay was not a medical condition, and I couldn't prescribe medication for sexuality. He had a specific thing for me though, and one night I got an alert on my phone at three in the morning from Jeffrey. Apparently he was downtown, completely drunk, and needed an escort. Now, why I agreed, was for the sole reason that I promised to take care of my patients, and whatever that included? So, I drove up to where he was, and helped him into my car, when he said, "I love you."

"You're drunk." Was my reply.

"Doesn't mean I don't love you." He said.

"I'm your psychiatrist, Jeff." I replied, "and I'm straight."

"So? You're the first person to accept me as I am, and I like that. I like you! I love you! Why can't you love me back?" He replied, pouting, and then leaning over to kiss me. Why I allowed this, god knows. It was unethical, and stupid, but he kissed me and I felt nothing, I almost crashed the car, but kissing him was like kissing my mother, it felt normal, and that only confirmed that I was indeed attracted to the opposite sex.

"Jeff," I shoved him off lightly, "I am your psychiatrist. Not one of your mates you can just kiss and forget, whatever you think you have here, is business. It's my job to care, Jeff. And I do care, because I want to help, but falling in love with someone who's not interested is not going to help anyone, okay?" He was quiet for a while.

"You think we can go on a date?" He grinned, laughing.

"Again, Jeff, psychiatrist." I replied, laughing at his drunken impetuosity.

"You know, playing the psychiatrist card on me isn't the answer to all of it." He said.

"You know what, Jeffrey. I have a suggestion, there's this gay bar thing close to my house, why don't I come with you tomorrow night, and you find yourself a partner who's not your psychiatrist, and actually likes men, yeah?" I said.

"Really?" He answered, his face lighting up.

"Yes, I'll go." I laughed softly.

"Wow, best psychiatrist ever!" He exclaimed, turning my radio up.

So, yes, dear reader, this is how Harry Holt, straight and asexual as they get, ended up in a gay bar, filled with gay men and women, feeling rather un-gay. Jeff deserted me the minute we got there, so completely out of place and fearing that I might get hit on by a man, I went to the bar and sat there. A woman approached me, and smiled, "can I get you anything?"

"No, no." I smiled as a thank you.

"Alright, what're you here for?" She asked.

"I'm here for a patient." I said, laughing a little.

"A doctor? Why so?" She asked.

"Well, see the guy in the corner wearing the sunglasses, he's apparently in love with me, and well, I'm straight as an arrow, and his psychiatrist. So, I agreed to accompany him here, only because I thought it would help him accept he's gay, but he deserted me the minute I walked in, and so here I am, talking to a gay bartender." I shrugged, and she laughed.

"Funny story, and I'm not gay." She replied.

"You're not? Funny, since we're in a gay bar." I laughed softly.

"Hush up, Mr Straight. You're in here too, it's an after hours thing, okay?" She blushed, answering in a defensive manner.

"Touché. What's your name, straight bartender?" I mused.

"Mary." She smiled, "my name is Mary St Clair."

"Sinclair or St Clair?" I asked.

"St Clair, why?" She laughed a little.

"My mum's last name is Sinclair, or was rather." I replied, joining her laughter.

"So, I'm supposing you're Doctor Sinclair, psychiatrist, and closeted homosexual." She winked, and this time I was flustered.

"Bloody hell, I'm straight, swear to God." I laughed.

"And you're British, let me guess, first name? Edward, second, William. Doctor Edward Sinclair, yeah?" She laughed.

"No, Doctor Harry Holt, my second name is Edward though, good going." I replied, smirking.

"Holt? Damn, I was off. My bad, sorry Doctor Holt." She laughed softly, looking down.

"Please, drop the formalities, Harry's fine, considering we're in a gay bar." I laughed, and she shook her head.

"Just can't let that one go, can you?" She playfully sighed, checking her cell phone, "listen, time's nine fifty-five p.m., and my shift ends at ten, do you maybe want to get out of here afterwards?" She smiled shyly this time.

"And go to a straight bar?" I joked, laughing, as she elbowed me on the shoulder.

"Aren't you a jokester? No, outside, for a walk or something. You obviously know the area better than I do." She laughed.

"All right, Mary St Clair, deal. I'll give you the grand tour." I mused, grinning.

"Why thank you, Doctor Harry Holt, it would be an honour." She smiled, stepping outside of the bar, and appearing next to me.

"It would be my pleasure, Mary St Clair." I smiled, offering her my hand; she took it with gratitude, as we walked out. It was quite chilly out, so yes, being a gentleman, I offered her my jacket, which she put over her shoulders with a grateful nod.

"Is it always this cold?" She laughed softly, shivering a little.

"I've lived in England my whole life, this is nothing." I mused, pulling her closer with my free arm.

"Well, I'm from New York, so this is a whole new level of freezing." She laughed.

"New York? Nice." I smiled.

"Not when you're freezing!" She enquired.

We both laughed after that.

I contemplated on telling her about the fact that I had kids, but decided against it. A single father was usually a major turn off, and I was apparently really hitting it off with Mary St Clair, so I wanted to keep it that way.

Two years afterward I was standing at the altar again, wearing a suit again, and vowing a bunch of things again. Yes, dear reader, Harry Holt got remarried, it was obviously a bit odd, for you and I both, because I never thought I would, never in a million years did I think, after Rose died, that I'd be getting married again. Ever. It was a great day, she looked beautiful, and I might just go as far as saying, gorgeous. But she was no Rose, and Rose would've stayed longer. Mary St Clair – or rather for the next two years, Mary Holt – was a great woman, but she didn't last long. Two years later, fancy pants here was standing in court. And that's how I got divorced, and proved finally that I was completely off of relationships for the rest of my god-awful life. You only fall in love once, there is no second love, or third try, there's that one beautiful girl, or extremely attractive man you absolutely lose yourself you're so in love with. There are no second chances. The human race is living in denial that we can fall in love again, and observing it all, I saw how teenagers fall in and out of love everyday, and I just shook my head because we're all clueless about this anyway. I can't comment on what the bloody hell possesses you to fall in love, only because I'm not a neurologist. I don't know what the brain does when someone kisses you, I don't know any of that, and I probably never will. Love is one of the biggest mysteries in this world, scientists are trying to solve why Jesus existed, and if he did, but really, we should be focusing on what happens when a human being falls in love. What clicks, why does it click, and why does it happen? What the hell possesses us to do something so stupid? Love is the biggest mystery in my life, has always been. But what I know is this, I was in love with Rose Darlings, I knew it. I thought I loved Mary St Clair, but really? There's no second chance for me, I don't get to fall in love again, because there's once and then it's true. The times after are just poor attempts to put your heart back together.