It's true that killing yourself gives you the last word, but it must be a bummer not being around to enjoy the victory, especially since none of us really know what your suicide was trying to say. Maybe some bizarre mixture of protection and punishment; a little "you'll be better off without me," and a lot of "look what you made me do." Guess the whole family thing didn't turn out the way you planned. What a surprise it must of been to discover your boys were not minature copies of yourself. Even your wife--carefully chosen for her complaint, old-fashioned personality--voiced independent thought. Turns out her idea of being loved "in sickness and in health" didn't involve receiving a rose of apology after being (emotionally) beaten. Who knew?
So now you're gone, and nobody knows how to untangle the twisting cords of anger and sadness, love and hate, that bind me--as surely as any physical chains--to you in a sick imitation of love I can neither believe in nor let go of. Dad, you never thought I'd amount to much, and I know how much you like to be right. So to you I dedicate my failure and my despair. I promise not to be happy.
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