That is a word that has often come to my mind as explanation of my tragedy. And I mean it in the classical Greek sense.
Contrary to what my son may have thought, I was always proud of him for being different. And now he is the most different - he's dead. And part of me can't help but be proud of that - that he did it his way, that he wouldn't grovel to save his life, that he was above it all.
Now don't I deserve this?