I made many choices that night; some were smart, some stupid, some crazy. I believed, deep down, my father would indeed kill himself, sooner or later; I knew my mother was in danger

[H]e knelt on the floor, put the barrel of a .22 rifle in his mouth, and squeezed the trigger.

He was 46 years old. I was 21. This week marks the 20th anniversary of his death. And I am still cleaning up.

How do we feel about someone who’s depressed but won’t get help? Who blames all his problems on someone else? Who emotionally terrorizes and blackmails the people he loves? Is that okay, too? Can you fault him for anything if he ends up dead?

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