I learnt to not love my father after his death. He walked out on a wife and 3 small children when I was 4 (I was the middle child and there is barely 18 months between my older sister and I, and 13 months between my younger brother and I).
We had no real contact with him when we were growing up, and my body language in the few photos that we do have with him in the early days, is very interesting. Then as a teenager I self-righteously decided that he had been misjudged by my mother's family (who referred to him as The Rotter) (she never spoke ill of him by the way, she very seldom spoke about him) and I worked hard at establishing a loving relationship with him as an adult, until he died. It was only after he died that I could reflect on how much of the relationship we had at that time was down to my superhuman efforts to make myself believe that he was good and kind and unselfish; and suffice to say - as is often the case - certain truths about him came out after he died and a whole lot of stuff made sense to me. I have no bitterness, or regrets, am just sorry I never had the chance to say to my mom, 'You know what, we were better off without him'.
Like greatnan, I was lucky to have one the best mothers in the world.