I grew up in a household where suicide was always felt (my great-grandfather had killed himself... it may sound like that should have been distant, but our family was a very extended one with me living with parents, grandparents and my great-grandmother in the same house). In that house, there was a room no one was supposed to go in, the room he shot himself in. The blood hadn't even been cleaned after his body was removed and buried. They just closed the door and on rare occasions, someone would shove a box of "stuff" to stack in the room through the door... when the door could be reached. Usually stuff was piled in front of it.
The outside door to that room (it was the original kitchen to the house, and yes, after he died, they just made a second kitchen), got overgrown with ivies, the small awning was allowed to just fall off the house, pulling some of the clapboard with it. The window broke and the barn cats would go and nest in there.
I used to want to know why that room was closed up so much. No one talked about it. If I tried to peek a look, either I risked poison ivy itches (not so bad for me, since as a kid I never caught the rash, but horrid for my uncle and grand-father since they could catch it from being around me) or being hollered at.... And the brief peeks I did catch never made much sense. What was so special about a dirty old kitchen filled with boxes and the corpses of mice and birds?
It wasn't until I was in my late twenties that I'd pieced all the hints together. By then I'd been hospitalized for suicide attempts myself, my uncle had been living on antidepressants, my grand-father had been slowly recovering from alcoholism, ...
Suicide does change things.