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September 20, 2013
My uncle died; no one told me. Instead, a few years later, visiting relatives one summer, having breakfast before flying home, someone casually reminisced about, you know, that cold winter, Uncle T's funeral--

Breakfast quiche now tasteless.

I made my face expressionless, didn't break down until my son and I were away.

I hadn't been close to Uncle T, who wasn't a blood uncle. In my twenties, isolated from family, he saw me and scolded, "Why don't you call your mother?" He didn't ask how I was--probably because he didn't care.

And that's the thing--my mom's family have never cared.