My father, who was very abusive passed away in 2006 on my birthday. I've always felt that in some way he died on my birthday as a final strike to me (probably not an overly rational thought). I didn't mourn for him, I don't miss him, didn't shed a tear. We didn't even have calling hours for him. None of us wanted to sit there and wait for his friends, the few he had, most who hated us anyway and some who took part at least indirectly in our abuse when we were younger, to pay their respects. Our biggest regret was that he outlived our mother, who deserved to have time away from that monster, but never got it until she was on her death bed.