I recently had the occasion to visit the deathbed of a relative who died with much of his family deeply wounded by, and angry at, him. Had you known him, you might have called him a horrible person and not without some backing for that claim.

But I went because I felt a duty to my relatives that isn’t released just because they didn’t hold up their end of the bargain: he had indirectly given me life, even if he had done much ill besides. And moreover I felt an obligation to the office of the head of my family that transcended the particular man.

It would be a grim world in which comfort for the grieving is a service the deceased must have earned in advance, and we the comforters decide whether they have really earned it.