There was never really anything positive to say about you. I remember a million bad times and one good time. One day, you were feeling more generous than usual. You took us to the shore and we walked around, looked at all the booths, ate some fun food, and played some games. We fell asleep on the car ride home, and you carried me to bed. It was this memory I held on to when things were especially bad. When you would break things or yell or, sometimes, lay a few hits on us. Why we endured this and let it continue, is beyond me. I'm sure there were reasons at the time. But one day, I came home and the house was quiet. Normally there would be yelling when I got home. I soon learned why. You had decided you could drive, even though your blood alcohol was three times what it should have been. You missed a stop sign and didn't see the truck. You never left the intersection alive. I'm not ashamed to admit, we were the only ones at the funeral. And not a single tear was shed between us. Actually, after that day, things got way better for all of us. You had been a destructive force in our lives, razing anything good that grew, but once you destroyed yourself, we were able to grow.