It’s a family-that-isn’t-a-family. My mother hates all of them. Says so as often as she can. Uncle Harry is going to die and I barely know him. I essentially just met my two aunts and they seem cool—and maybe not nightmare racists like my mother, so that’s good. But there’s more than one missing part here. More than one missing cousin, or one missing uncle who lives on the West Coast. The hole in this family-not-a-family is big. It’s bigger than a six-hundred-acre potato farm. It’s bigger than this county that we all live in. I can’t figure it out.
