My brother died four years ago. I didn't get along with him, but I'd be an idiot to say that I didn't care for the man. He's family, regardless of personal quarrel.
A car accident was the least likely death I pictured for him, with the opposite being he'd grow old, with several children and a dozen grandchildren. As luck would have it, he wound up crashing through the window shield at 25 years.
When mom called me, I hung-up. It wasn't forceful. I simply dropped the phone and blacked out. I think I woke up in the bathroom at some point. My face felt softer than a cat's belly, but looked uglier than a girl's who got dumped before a prom.
By the time I cleaned myself up, my doorbell rang. It was mom. Only she could ring it like that. One long, one short, one long, one short, followed by door knocks. Like a crazy person. Come to think of it, I did that once to a friend of mine, and when they opened the door, they had a baseball bat in their hands. Laughed for half an hour.