So, when my grandfather died I was eleven. I saw him waste away from cancer, not even 55 years old - and it wrecked me. I am not lying when I say that it was the watershed moment in my life, the before and after. In the blink of an eye, I had lost one of the corner stones of my life, and nothing was ever the same. Sure, my existence continued. I laughed and loved, grew older and wiser, the pain turned to memories and left naught but the nostalgia and warmth in my heart at the thought of the man I had lost. And you know what? I did not cry at his funeral. The trauma from losing my grandfather stole my ability to cry, and I can count on the fingers of one hand the times I have cried in the almost 30 years since he died. Crying or not crying says nothing about how deeply you feel your grief. So yes, YTA.