My parents divorced a long time ago, when I was 7. In our button down, white collar neighborhood, divorce was almost as bad as saying you didn't believe in God. My mother, an athiest, was shunned by others on our street when they found out Dad was leaving for good. One night, long after he had gone, she packed us all up and left. We moved to my grandmother's, and I never saw that house again.

My father moved to LA with a woman named Theresa and had two kids, Christine and Brian. Brian was born when I was eight, Christine when I was ten. I only met them once. For Christmas a couple years ago, Dad sent me and invitation to spend the holiday with him and his family. Reluctantly, I accepted, hoping to make peace with these estranged relatives.

Seeing Dad for the first time in God knows how long was hard; many horrible memories of him had to be suppressed in order to enjoy/tolerate his company. His wife stayed out of the way, making only small talk when she was forced. Christine was twelve and very shy; for most of my visit, she sat in the corner of her room and read.

Brian was the most interesting member of the family (please note the use of 'interesting' with a negative connotation.) He was 14 and very into the newly developing internet. On Christmas Eve, he invited me into his room to show me his favorite site: Lesbian Online.
"I like to come here and make fun of the dykes," he said, as if it was a very normal pastime. I asked him if his father knew what he was doing, and he said no.
"Dad would kill me if he knew I was on a site that had to do with Gays. He fucking hates them."
Brian entered a chat room designed to support women in their decision to come out of the closet and proceded to post the most grotesque, hateful messages I had ever seen. I sat in horror for a few minutes before reaching beside him and pulling the plug on his internet connection.
"What the fuck did you do that for? We were having fun!"
I left his room in silence and regarded Brian with a quiet disgust for the rest of my visit. Upon my departure, my father asked if I'd like to visit again some time. I told him probably not.

Dad called me today, crying. Brian was driving with some friends last night when they went off the road and plowed into the side of a house. No one in the house was injured, but the three boys in the car were pronounced DOA. I consoled my father the best I could but eventually had to hang up and go to work.
And all day long, I was plauged by pleasure stemming from this boy's death.

I feel like a bad person. Hopefully, a good night's rest will bring relief.