My mother died from a stroke while I was visiting during the holidays a couple of years ago. I noticed that she had been behaving strangely a couple of days prior to her attack, but just thought it was holiday-induced stress. Because I didn’t recognize her symptoms, or understand how serious her other health problems were at the time, I blame myself for her death.
In a sense, I’m actually relieved that she died. Because if she had lived, but with a damaged brain and body, dependant on my idiot of a father, I don’t think I could live with myself. As it is, I merely hate myself.