Note: One of the tricky things about the diary, is that obviously it can only contain things that Shane witnesses or is told about. Even though we hear and see what others (particularly Oliver) might be thinking, I have to stick to what Shane actually experiences. For example, we might know that Oliver does look like he wanted to call her back at the park, she would not.

Wow! What a day. Fathers found and lost; a mother probably lost too, a porch swing that doesn't work unless it's a swing for two, playgrounds and phone calls. A glass of wine is definitely required if I am to process this one – maybe some chocolate too. Here we go, chronologically speaking.

Morning:

So, how exactly was I to play Oliver's early morning carpentry visit? Should I leave early and miss it completely? Should I offer him coffee and be a gracious host? Should I hide inside and ignore him completely? Heaven help us if I were to greet him in something not work appropriate! Nothing so interesting I am afraid – I simply played it professional and waited ready for work (complete with overcoat) on the porch. Sigh.

Perhaps this odd situation might have improved if it were not for Hazel. We have just discovered that the swing was only level when it was doubly occupied (a provocative thought), when the irrepressible force that is Hazel joined us on my porch. That wasn't awkward at all! Not only did she think that Oliver was Steve (really Hazel? Oliver has worked at the Denver longer than you have and you've never noticed him?) which was all sorts of uncomfortable, but then she decided to check him out! I don't know if I was jealous, or just felt protective of Oliver … yes let's go with protective. I basically shooed her from my home, while secretly wishing she was right and that we did, in fact, work together.

I then began a very un-debate performance worthy explanation of my defunct relationship with Steve (How was it that I lost all ability to string together a sentence? I used to be good at that. Why did words fail me now?). Thankfully, that ended before I made a complete fool of myself.

I long ago saw through Oliver's carefully put together façade, but today I discovered another chink in his armour. Oliver played it like he was indulging my curiosity, but I think he really did want to unburden himself about his parents. I think that he knew my own situation was so fraught and that I would understand. So, Oliver's parents divorced when he was thirteen. I don't think another three years (over the ten that I had) would have made much difference. He was still a child when his mother left, and I see now that that little boy is never far from the surface. His mother remarried, and he stayed with his father. What sort of a mother does that? I mean, mine is far from perfect, but I never have had cause to think that she didn't want me. Then within four years, his mother died. I dealt badly with losing my dad as an adult. How do you navigate that as a teenager?

Okay, Oliver does have my full sympathy with all of this. He may have lost my support a little when he explained that the final rift between he and his father occurred when his dad went to work for the company that dare not be spoken. Oliver, really? You gave up a relationship with your only surviving parent because he went to Fed-X? Fed-X, Fed-X, Fed-X. There O'Toole, I mentioned it - three times! You are the dearest person in the world, but sometimes Oliver, you are ridiculous. Family tradition is one thing, but are you telling me that every O'Toole since the 1800s has worked for the post office? No teachers, or bakers, or candlestick makers? I don't buy it.

To say that I have learned to manage Oliver does not paint me in the best light. I do occasionally cajole or sweet-talk and manipulate (okay that does sound bad), but most of the time I can reason with him and get him to see things my way, no, get him to see sense, that's better. Today called for more than that. Today called for bossiness verging on bullying – for his own good.

Oliver is determined to see his father as the bad guy, but I really think that Oliver as an adult, needs to listen to his father's point of view. So, with a little bit of a nudge (if a bulldozer can nudge), Oliver arranged to meet his father in Washington Park.

Then things became, at first look. Infinitely worse. A phone call had me sending Rita and Norman to deliver the letter to Phoebe before rushing to find Oliver to pass on terrible news. I alternately hurried and dawdled to the park. I needed to be with Oliver and tell him the scant details the phone call contained, but also, I wanted to delay giving such a blow. My own guilt and grief over losing my own father made this even harder.

I found Oliver at the pond near the playground. As gently as I could, I told him the little I knew. A lawyer had called, and baldly stated that his father had died during the night, and that he was needed to meet with this lawyer at two o'clock. Then he sent me away, back to work. I didn't want to go. I squeezed his arm as I left, hoping that he would call me back. But he did not, and so I left him, a still, solitary figure amid the joyous shouts of playing children.

I don't know how I did anything productive upon my return to the DLO, but somehow, after managing to explain what had happened to Oliver to Norman and Rita, and finding out about their promise to Phoebe, I did manage to be useful. Phoebe wanted us to find the author of the letter, and we did – Chopper pilot Clay Markham.

Afternoon:

Another phone call interrupted us again. I hope this one would not contain more devastation. It did not. It was Oliver calling from who knows where? Oliver wanted me to meet him at the lawyer's office to accompany him as moral support.

I in fact met Oliver outside the office, and he paced and bounced his way through the most shocking story. Joe was not dead (thank goodness). But neither was he Oliver's biological father. It seems that his step-father (although I don't believe that Oliver ever thought of him as such) was in fact his father. His mother had been having an affair with Harvey throughout his parent's marriage, until she finally ran off with him. Wow! I think in that moment I began to dislike Oliver's mother as much as I did Holly.

Then we met with the lawyer. It was possibly the weirdest legal consultation ever. Harvey Schmidt died in Singapore, leaving his body to the Himalayan Centre for the Scientific Study of Foot Disease (it really is a thing, I googled it) as well as the patent for a self-cleaning shoe. How … innovative. Not only that, but Harvey Schmidt also had a lot of money … like a lot. After making numerous bequests, he left the balance of his estate to Oliver. That and an apology. Yeh Harvey, I am not sure that that is going to cut it. Harvey said, 'You never have enough money if all you have is money.' Well Harvey, Oliver has more that just the money. He has a family who love him. He has Rita, and Norman and me.

I left Oliver to return to work. Oliver was going to meet his father – the living one, Joseph O'Toole. He (Oliver) said that he was fine, but I am not sure. He is pretending that he is okay, but I worry that he is so overwrought that he is going to say something he later regrets. How could he be comfortable with any of this? His whole identity, his sense of his place in the world has been shaken. Oh Oliver. I would say that bottling things up is unhealthy, but I also acknowledge my own hypocrisy. I am in no position to judge. Oliver is not expressing his feelings about his past trauma and current crisis, but then I haven't told him about Alex either. We are a pair.

I was in serious need of coffee, so I decided to stop in at the Mailbox Grille before heading to the DLO. There I met Rita, Norman, and Phoebe. Phoebe seemed to be eating her way through the menu (I later found out that it was because she didn't eat at school so she could avoid the taunting of her classmates. Hacking into the school's network and changing some students' grades would be unprofessional – but I won't say I didn't think about it.)

Norman and Rita were preparing to take Phoebe to meet with Clay Markham, the author of her letter. I briefly wondered what Oliver would have to say about this variation to procedure, but then he joined us, and I didn't have to wonder any longer. At least he didn't say no.

Meeting Clay was another layer of heaviness upon this already difficult day. He wanted to tell Phoebe about how courageous and honourable her mother was. He didn't want to tell Phoebe that he didn't believe that her mother was still alive. Is this what our meddling has done? Taken Phoebe's hope?

I am so glad that she made such a connection with Norman, and that he was there for her today. It is almost as if Norman grew up before our very eyes. I mean, Norman is an adult, and is responsible in so many ways, but I guess I have always seen him as almost child-like. Today, he showed Phoebe and us the strength of character that has always been there, but was hidden somehow. Norman was exactly the support that Phoebe needed today.

Oliver thought that he was talking about Phoebe and Norman when he commented on the afternoon's events. Two things that he said were meant for Phoebe, but gave a glimmer to where his own heart and head were. 'No child should have to do this alone', and 'It must be like losing her all over again' were as much his own heartbreak as hers.

One comment, about O'Tooles quoting Shakespeare when they had nothing to say was all about him. It was especially poignant when he followed it with, 'I guess I am not an O'Toole after all.' Oliver quoted, 'O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last,' directing it to Phoebe.

It was his pain too, for his mother, for his fractured relationship with his father, and for his devastation over not being an O'Toole by birth. I looked up the rest of the quote. I could see the burden of this day etched on his face.

"O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last,

And careful hours with Time's deformed hand

Have written strange defeatures in my face.

But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?"

The Evening:

I stood in the shadows of the shelving, not wanting to be seen, but also not wanting to leave. My heart ached for him. Such a fundamental part of Oliver's sense of himself was stripped away. I needed to be there, watching to make sure that he was okay. Somehow, he sensed my presence. Whether it was my breathing, my thudding heart, or my perfume lingering in the air that gave me away, Oliver knew I hadn't gone.

Poor Oliver, so determined to be stoic, but falling apart before my eyes. The weight of the day's revelations was heavy. Oliver faced the realisation that his mother was responsible for a lack of contact, not the father that he had blamed for years, and that that father was not his by blood, but rather by choice. A man he had despised for years was in fact his biological father, and he was not, by DNA, an O'Toole.

I meant it when I said that I knew he didn't need comfort from me. His response – 'When has what I wanted ever stopped you,' – was as close to a cry for help as I had ever heard from him. I knew I wouldn't have long, that he would gather his pride around him and leave my embrace, but for the short time that I had my arms around him, I was determined to offer what care and support I could.

Then he was moving away. I hoped that he had heard what I said, where I knew he needed to go for comfort. I still didn't want to leave but understood that I had to. He needed time alone. Time to think, time to pray, time to find forgiveness and peace. I touched his cheek, hoping he would remember the kiss I had placed there at Christmas.

So now I am left with only you for company diary. I want to call him, to hear that he is okay. But I can't. So I will write, and hope.