A guest column by Bill Webb.

The death of a parent is different.

For all of us, parents -- biological or otherwise -- are the ones who were always there. We may have grown up with siblings, depended on others for protection, lived in the same town with them, be estranged from our entire families, see them rarely after a great deal of travel, never see them at all, or any combination of the above. Nonetheless, parents are always with us and -- in all but rare cases -- are the ones we think of as the anchors of our lives. We may have lost friends, spouses, children, each an incredible loss in its own way, but the death of a parent is different.

Even for those who were abandoned, either actually or emotionally, parents are always there in memory, in questions, in unfinished business and -- since we all desire on some level to either please, fulfill or prove something to them -- we all have unfinished business.

And, of course, we love them -- or want to love them, or wish we could have -- and they, us.

But the business of life is never finished. We may hope to see -- believe that we will see -- them again one day, or we may be among those who believe that death is the end, literally and finally. It doesn't matter. Regardless of our belief system, our interactions, real or potential, with those most important people cease in this world, apart from whatever is happening in our own heads.

So we wonder. Did I make them proud? Did I disappoint them? Did they forgive me? Can I -- should I -- will I -- ever forgive them? If I'm better, will they know? If I'm not…will they care? And, finally, who else will care as much?

If home is the place where, when you go there, they have to let you in, then parents are the heart's home.

After the death of a parent, everything is different. Everything.