Family
When the topic of family comes up, I usually don't have much to say. My mother and father both died in 2013. And I have two brothers, both of whom live in Arizona, both of whom are significantly older than me (12 and 14 years my senior), and both of whom are estranged. That little factoid often generates a range of responses, from disbelief to disapproval. "But they're your brothers," is a frequent, emphatic reply. Most people operate from the position that relatives are always, always special cases of some sort. For them, there's some universal law that blood relatives deserve special treatment.
"Why?" I ask. What gives shared DNA unique status?
The last time I saw Robert and Richard was sometime around 2012, when I was asked to be in a family portrait before my father passed. I obliged (and nearly died as a consequence, when the flight home very nearly crashed while landing). And that was my last contact with them. It is true that I never made an effort to get in touch with them again; it is also true that they never made any effort to get in touch with me. Which leads me to assume the disinterest in communication is mutual.
Aside from our DNA, I have nothing in common with them. No shared interests. And given the vast distance physically separating us, collectively we have nothing to inspire a willingness to bridge that distance. As it stands, I am now unable to fly, so I won't be heading west for the remainder of my life. If either of my brothers had some burning desire to see me before I pass, I am unaware of it. And no one out there in Arizona can claim they don't know how to get in touch with me, given my presence on the Internet. A quick Google search will track me down instantly.
So when the time comes for me to part ways with the living, my family, such as it is, will find out the same way as everyone else: my website will say so, and my friends here in the East all know what to do.