[Simple intro, I want the posters to have as much of a say in the relationship with the father as they want to have. Father died at age 68, lived with his wife, the mother of his children. A once respected business-owner, his career went down as he got older and was pushed to retire. He felt that by retiring he was giving up and lost a reason to go on living. His wife and him had become distant, and living with her was like living with a stranger. Unable to handle the stress, he ended his life with a shot to the head. The story begins with the funeral being a day away and they are all preparing for it. Whether it be on a plane flight, a train ride, or just sitting at their house getting ready (if they still live near him). How they heard about the death is up to the poster. Basic Information that doesn't change: Stephen Lochwood (Father's name) Patricia Lochwood (Mother's name) Meeting a funeral home the next day 5 Children Max, otherwise they can be any member of the family that they wish to be.] I held the pencil in my hand, trying to write the words that wouldn't come about the man I didn't love. As one of his children I was expected to write a eulogy about him and how it was growing up with him as a father. I laughed softly to myself and knew that I'd have to lie, as I didn't really remember seeing him much when I was growing up. He was always busy with one thing or another, whether it be one of my brothers or sisters or work. Thrown by the wayside most of the time, I never got to really know him. I suppose now I never will. I looked at the paper and sighed at how little I had written. Hardly beyond writing my name, I couldn't think of the words to say. The paper became blurry and I gripped my pencil hard before throwing it across the room. I grabbed the paper and tore it into pieces, hardly able to rip it twice before my emotions overcame me and I buried my head in my hands. I shook and tried to keep myself quiet, not wanting to admit to myself that he was truly gone. I threw the torn paper to the floor and grabbed my face hard, pushing against my temples and trying to regain my composure. I struck the desk with my fist, ignoring the pain and wishing I could just make it all go away. I struck it again, this time recoiling back and squeezing my bruised hand. I cried harder, no longer trying to hold it back. For the first time in years, I cried like a child.